


Church

by Cockbite (personalized_radio)



Series: The Cockbite Syndicate [8]
Category: The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aleks does not and Brett Tries, Blackmail, I Tried, Inaccurate Catholicism, M/M, Multi, Open Marriage, Patreon.avi, Polyamory, Religious Guilt, Religious Themes, Sexual Tension, There are no good people but James Tries, these characters are based much more on Patreon.avi than on established fake chop lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 84,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personalized_radio/pseuds/Cockbite
Summary: Transitional Deacon James is witness to a murder by loan sharks Aleks and Brett and is strong-armed into assisting them in their plot to rob his church.James has to deal with too much bullshit in his life and getting involved with criminals is the last thing he needs if he wants to keep his own secrets hidden.Inspired by Einchop's Amazing Priest!James au





	1. If you were church, I'd get on my knees (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tay!!!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Tay%21%21%21%21%21), [MadQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadQueen/gifts).
  * Inspired by ["He saw too much..."](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/437782) by Einchop. 



> hello friends!!!  
> look!!!! pRIEST AU!!!!!
> 
> so bc i have not been ablet o finish part 2 yet and the rest of this isn't beta'ed (this part isn't beta'ed either tbh), im planning to update this bi-weekly (so every two weeks) for right now. im kind of scatter brained right now but i want to say thank you to jackie and gina and kenn and jess and an assortment of other friends who have listened to me whine about this au for over a year now honestly and id like to thank tay for waiting SO LONG for what was supposed to be a silly christmas gift that i turned into.............................this and id like to thank cas for letting me play in her sandbox like this. thank you everyone for your support and i hope you enjoy the wild ride we've got in store!!! its been a long bit of time since ive posted a fic that i havent had the end chapters written for lmao so buckle in for a Bit of a Wait if this is ur first ride with me (im so sorry)
> 
> id link to my tumblr but, as u know, tumblr is imploding so u can find me on twitter at prsnlzdradio (or as cockbite on tumblr if u want to play the violin as the ship goes down with me).

James hates Father Frank and has wished him dead more times than he can count, usually leaning over one of the holy Scriptures and reading it out loud in Latin while Father Frank belittles his pronunciation, but he hadn’t _meant_ it.

Well. Not like this.

“Please -” Father Frank says, sounding desperate, “Please, let me explain, let me explain, please -”

“You know...I’ve already heard all your excuses, Frank,” One of the men sighs. James peeks through the ornate wood of the confessional, prays to God that the pews hide him. He’s not a good man, especially for someone who’s so close to his ordainment, but he likes to think that the Big Man Upstairs would punish him with something a bit more mundane than getting shot in the head by a pair of fucking gangsters. He might have deserved it when he was younger but he’d been _good_ for the last near five years, aside from a little gambling here and there to make ends meet. Whatever Father Frank has done though, to get him caught in this situation, James can’t speak for. “And, frankly, I don’t...really give a shit.”

“Please,” Father Frank groans from where he’s sprawled on the steps of the pulpit. “Please, I got a guy...I can, I can double your money. I can double your money! I know a guy in China -”

“You ever - have you ever heard the saying, where it’s like, you know...Fool me once, shame on you but,” The man sighs, leans over so he’s on Father Frank’s level, and he doesn’t sound...angry or mean. Disappointed, maybe, and Father Frank is probably thrice his age so it’s almost comedic, sounding so disappointed, and James would laugh except he’s terrified out of his mind. “You know, fool me twice. That’s just not gonna happen, Frank. You’re not gonna fool me twice, I’m sorry.”

Father Frank sobs, and something in James - maybe the part of him that had allowed himself to think applying for the seminary in the first place would help absolve him - says that he should stand up. Try to help.

The rest of him tells that part to shut the fuck up before he gets himself shot.

“You know somethin’, I - I never really did like your face, Frank. I dunno what it is about it. I think it’s maybe, like the size? Or, uh, you know what I’m sayin’ - what I’m talkin’ about?” The man nudges the second man on the shoulder from where he’s still crouched, keeping Father Frank in place on the steps. He’s knelt, like a prayer. He’s the one James is most in danger of being spotted by. 

His heart is in his throat, his stomach in his shoes. Fuck, he’s gonna goddamn shit himself, he’s so scared. Father Frank knows James is there - they’d been in the process of cleaning the cathedral when the front doors had been kicked in and the two men had come striding down the nave, guns drawn. 

“Yeah,” The second man says, and his voice is high, higher than James would have expected from the bodybuilder arms and gruff face. He grabs Father Frank’s chin, tilts it this way and that, “It _is_ a pretty weird face. The shape of it -”

“Right, like the _shape_ of his face!” The first man agrees, and it’s like they’re just having a regular conversation, but James _feels_ the slime in their tones. They’re too casual, too friendly, for beating up a man in a goddamn _church_. 

“Please,” Father Frank begs, “The money - I’ll get you the money -”

“Sorry, Frank,” The first man says again, “I really don’t like looking like a fool in front of my friend, here.”

“Let’s wrap this up,” The second man stands up, cracks his knuckles, “I’m hungry. Let’s get Arby’s.”

“You got it, babe,” the first man pulls one of his hands out of his pockets, lifts his arm so James can clearly see the gun he’s got gripped in his palm. Father Frank and James flinch at the same time when he presses the muzzle to Father Frank’s forehead. 

“Please -” Father Frank sobs, and James feels his stomach roll. He closes his eyes, scrunches of his face and presses his back against the far side of the confessional, wraps his arms over head head like that’ll somehow shield him from what’s about to happen.

“What’s that thing you guys have? Last rites?” The man says, playful, “You better say ‘em before you meet your maker, dude.”

“The church -” Father Frank moans miserably, “Fundraiser, I can get your money in a few months, just - just a few months and the church will have double your money -”

“Rob a church, Father?” The first man says, and actually sounds put out, “I thought you were better than that.”

“ _Please_ -”

The shot is...nothing like the movies. It’s so loud that it’s deafening, bounces against the walls, amplified by the old architecture of the cathedral.

“Jesus!” the first man groans when the echoes finally stop, “This place is a goddamn, it’s an echo chamber!”

“It’s a church, dumbass,” The second man says, “What did you expect?”

“Ugh, just shut up and help me move the body.”

“Poor old guy,”

“Don’t _poor old guy_ me, this fucker lost us a quarter of a mil,”

They bicker, but James doesn’t listen. Doesn’t _want_ to listen, because they’re casually bantering like they haven’t just _shot someone_. Someone James hated, and has scars on his hands from being caned for messing up from, but still _\- someone that they’d just murdered in a church_. 

He just curls up; arms over his head, pulls his legs up and hides his face in the skirt of his cassock, tries to keep his shit together. This isn’t like with NOVA, when everything was so far removed that he could pretend. This wasn’t blurry camera footage or lines of code or even just voice confirmation that his information had been good. This was real, right now, in his face. A dead body - a dead body that he’d known.

He just has to stay silent until they leave, until the police show up because _someone_ must have reported that shot by now. The church has a lot of land, but Father Frank and James aren’t the only members of the clergy around - there’s the convent less than half a mile away and Sister Mary Ann had been cleaning the back room when Father Frank had dragged James in to clean the confessional, though James can’t be sure she’s still there. He would talk to the police, tell them what he heard, get the _fuck_ out of here and finally admit to his mom that the priesthood really wasn’t for him, it wasn’t just the gambling thing or the celibacy thing, it was _God Himself_ telling James that he was not welcome in the priesthood after the life he’s had, it was -

The confessional door opens.

“Oh.” The first man says. “It looks like Father Frank had a choir boy with him.”

“He’s wearing one of those robes, dude, I think he’s a Father, too.” The second man fuckin’ sluethes and James slowly looks up, stares at the two of them with wide eyes.

“Oooh, Daddy-on-Daddy roleplay. I like it.”

“Stop.” The second man says, drops the body he’s helping hold up, and then reaches into the confessional for James. James has a solid two seconds of absolute, pants-wetting terror before he tries to get away but those two seconds are two seconds too long and the guy gets him by the hair before he can get more than out of his crouch against the back of the wood paneling. 

He’s pulled out roughly, trips over _Father Frank’s body_ in his attempts to lessen the pain of being ripped around by his hair, squeezes his eyes shut tight against the tears and can’t even make a sound in his fear. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus, he’s going to die. He’s going to die right here, right now, in this God forsaken, rich white person church he was assigned to right out of seminary four months before he is ordained, and then he’s going to go to Hell.

He gets thrown on the steps, feels warm wetness soak into the black of his cassock against his back, tries not to think of what that is. The wood of the steps is hard, the carpet that lines the main aisle rough, not meant to be forgiving against his palms.

“Not very talkative, is he?”

“All the better for us,” the second guy says, and then there’s a gun right in James’ face again.

“Wait,” he finally says, “Wait, oh God, wait -”

“What?” the first guy sighs, “You gonna try to beg for your life, too?”

“I’ve got a dog,” James says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. A Corgi puppy he _just got_ that he isn’t, technically, allowed to have so no one else _knew_ , and what would happen to her if he was killed -

The man _laughs_. “Why the fuck do I care if you have a dog?”

“She’s...she’s a real good dog, man,” James hesitates, and he’s got nothing else, just Ein, that’s the only thing he can think of in his whole head, “She’s a Corgi, and she’s a few months old, I just got her, and no one knows about her so if I die, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill a puppy, dude, like a literal dog, you’ll have _killed a dog_ -”

“Jesus, Father, shut the fuck up,” the second guy presses the muzzle to his forehead, pushes him with it, and James swallows his tongue for a second before he finds it just long enough to throw something out in response.

“I’m - I’m not a priest.”

“You, uh, you sure look like one.” The first guy drops to his haunches, looks him over, “Kinda young, though.”

“I’m,” James glances at the gun, probably crosses his eyes trying to get a look at it, “I’m in training. Four months left. I’ve been in training for, like, five years, so can you just let me go? I’ve got a dog and so much schooling in this fucking occupation, killing me would be, like, _such_ a dick move. I didn’t lose anyone any money!”

“I would let you go,” the first man says, and James takes a second to look at him as closely as he can - dirty blond hair, sunglasses, a shark smile and a puffy jacket that makes no sense in the LA heat, “Except - there, see,” he taps his nose, “You know what we look like. See the problem?”

“I won’t tell.” James crosses himself, “I swear to God, I won’t tell, I didn’t even _like_ Father Frank, whatever, do you know how many times that asshole made me read Latin and then beat my hands black and blue for fucking up? Too many times. I mean, here, look -” He shoved his hands forward, where there were still bruises from the last caning along his knuckles, “Look at those - I don’t care about him,” he laughs nervously, dropping his hands to his lap, “Not at all, I ain’t a narc, the seminary doesn’t even teach us Latin, he was just being a dick -”

“Really,” the man smiles, a different kind of smile - more amused than dangerous. “You, a man of the cloth, are no narc?”

“Maybe if you’d caught me four months from now,” James swallows again, face hot where the gun’s against his forehead, “But I’m not a priest. Just...just a transitional deacon. Maybe if I was gonna be a permanent deacon, I’d reconsider but, you know...new oaths, new man.”

“New oaths, new man.” The man repeats, and then slowly pushes his partner’s arm so he isn’t pointed the gun at James’ head anymore.

“Immortal,” The second man groans, but he drops his hand and James has to close his eyes again, take a second to overcome the dizziness of being spared. 

At least for now.

“He’s no narc, babe,” The man - Immortal - says, like his partner hasn’t been standing right next to him, “At least, not for another four months. Wasn’t there something else that was happening four months from now? Something a little dead birdy mentioned right before I dropped him?”

“Something about double our money,” The second man says slowly, going from annoyed to interested in the span of that sentence, “A cool half a mil, right here. A fundraiser. You know anything about that, Mister Transitional Deacon?”

“The -” James has to take a second, try to get his brain back in order. It’s been a long time since he’s had to think fast like this and his brain is slow with panic, sluggish, “It’s the spring fundraiser. The surrounding communities, they all donate the big bucks. The church uses it to clean up the grounds, keep the clergy paid and the convent fed.”

“Huh,” Immortal looks James over, “You know, before Father Frank passed, he owed us a lot of money. And being his student and all, you’re like his son, right? Well, this debt transfers. We want our money, Deacon. What’s your name?”

“I wasn’t his - it’s James,” James ducks his head, drops his eyes at the raised eyebrow. He's been mugged before, he knows the drill. 

“Good name, that.” Immortal says, like he was only asking to get James to answer him, “Okay. Your Father owed us money, and he’s gone and got himself killed. So how are you gonna pay us back? Look at me, angel.”

“With…” James hesitates, glances up once and can’t quite keep eye contact until the second man makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and leans down to grab James’ face in a painful grip, force him to look Immortal in the eye. Immortal just smiles like it’s normal for his partner to go around manhandling holy men. “With the fundraiser proceeds?”

“What?” Immortal presses a hand to his chest, “You’d do that? For us? Wow, what a good guy.”

James doesn’t know what to say to that, just tries to keep his cool. His heart is hammering, his face and neck hot.

“Here’s what we’ll do, angel.” Immortal reaches out and James tries to flinch back, but the other man is still holding his face with bruising force, and Immortal just fingers the cross on James’ rosary as he talks, “I’m gonna take your phone, and then I’m gonna go to your place with that cute little pup of yours, and leave you here to handle the police. And then you’re gonna come home and we’re gonna come up with a nice little plan for this spring fundraiser that you can use to pay off your dear old daddy’s debts in four months. And then you can take your new oaths, be a new man, and forget any of this ever happened. I’m sure God’ll be fine with that, won’t He?”

“Y-yeah,” James says, even though there’s a very upset voice in his head that sounds too much like his mom saying _no, He would not be_. 

“Great.” Immortal offers a hand, “Now, nice and slow, gimme the phone. Be a champ and unlock it for me, too. I’m gonna need your GPS.”

Nice and slow, James reaches into the pocket of his cassock and pulls out his phone, unlocks it but stops just short of handing it over. “You’re not gonna hurt Ein, are you? Seriously, she’s only like two months old, she’s the size of your foot, don’t hurt her -”

“Dude, I’m not gonna fuck up your puppy. Unless you tell the police anything. If someone with a badge or a gun shows up at your goddamn place, I’ll put a bullet right in that cute little head but, if you’re a good boy, she’ll be nice and safe. We’ll even feed her, won’t we, babe?”

“I’ll take her outside, too.” The second man says with a smile that makes James want to freeze and never move again for fear of having that look turned on him again. Silently praying, much hard than before, that they’re telling the truth, James drops the phone in Immortal’s palm and Immortal stands up, already going through it.

“Thanks, angel. Your mom says to call her, by the way. New text.” He waved the phone and, far off, James can hear sirens. “Oops, sounds like our signal to get outta dodge. See you at home. Remember,” he leans down, taps James’ nose this time, “Don’t tell them about us or I’ll fucking shoot your dog. See you in a few hours, I hope the police station isn’t as gross as it used to be!”

James doesn’t...know what to say to any of that. They just. They just leave, as easy as they’d come in, like they hadn’t shot Father Frank, like they hadn’t just blackmailed James into helping them _rob his church_. Like Immortal hadn’t just repeatedly threatened to _shoot Ein in the head_ if he didn’t comply. 

Like they hadn’t just left him to deal with the cops and Father Frank’s body, and a whole church who know how much James hated him.

Jesus _Christ_.

-

The police station had been grueling, but the Bishop had give him a few days for prayer and contemplation. It wasn’t much, but maybe he had just seen how shaken James was and knew it was give him a few days off or deal with him losing his shit in the middle of a counseling session because they made him go back to the inner church before he was ready.

James gets a ride from Sister Mary Ann, who hadn’t been in the back room but had been close enough to hear the gunshot and take cover until the police arrived. James had been scared she’d _heard_ , that she’d seen something that would contradict James’ story - two people he hadn’t seen, one a woman, shot Father Frank after questioning him about some drugs that James couldn’t remember specifics about. As far as the cops were concerned, James had hidden in the confessional the whole time and they’d dropped the body before actually opening the door because they heard sirens and got out before they found him - but he hadn’t heard or seen a thing aside from the shot. The blood on his cassock came from when he’d tried to run out of the cathedral to flag the cops down and slipped in the pools of it on the stairs. 

Part of him wishes that was the true story.

Instead, half of the true story is sitting on his couch in his small studio with his television on and his dog asleep in his lap, while the other half is sitting at his small table with his muddy boots kicked up on the table top.

“Oh.” He says, closing the door behind him lightly and leaning his back against it, hands tight on the handle. He had to give the police his cassock and rosary because they had blood on them, so he’s just got his slacks and the long-sleeved undershirt of his uniform on and he feels underdressed in his own home, with the stranger’s neat black button up and Immortal looking stylish in a douchey kind of way. “You’re here.”

“More importantly,” Immortal looks him over, Ein in his arms, “ _You’re_ here. And no pigs.”

“You threatened my two month old puppy, dude,” James lets go of the door, holds his arms out, “I didn’t tell anyone anything. Gimme the dog.”

“I told you she’d be fine,” Immortal scoffs, but he holds Ein out. Her whole body wiggles in excitement, because she doesn’t know the kind of danger she and James are in, and he moves across the room as quick as he can, plucks her from Immortal’s hands and pulls her to his chest protectively.

“Excuse me if I don’t take your word for it, since you fuckin’ shot a priest on the steps of the goddamn cathedral, dude.”

“And we’ll do it again, if you don’t watch it,” the stranger from the table says sharply, and it’s enough to cow James into shutting his mouth, as big a feat as that is.

“Aw, come on, babe,” Immortal glances over his shoulder at the guy and then back at James, looks him over once with approval, “Let him act up a little. He’s come home dressed down a little. Trying to seduce us, angel?”

“Don’t call me that,” James’ lips twist, “There was blood on my cassock. I had to give it up to the police as evidence, so thanks for that. They took my rosary as evidence, too, so I guess I’ll just write my dead grandma a letter about that.”

“The robe wasn’t doing you any favors,” Immortal says, leering a little, and James holds Ein tighter to his chest in response, presses his lips together and drops his eyes in the hopes that Immortal will drop whatever he thinks he’s doing. Somehow, James isn’t flattered about being hit on by the guy who’d just killed a priest and held his dog hostage.

“Immortal,” the guy at the table sighs, taking pity on James, maybe. “Back off. You’re gonna freak him out.”

“Is it the gay thing? It’s the gay thing, isn’t it.”

“It’s the murder thing,” James glances up fast, just long enough to see Immortal’s amused expression before he looks back down at his carpet. “Definitely the murder thing. And the criminal thing. And the threatening thing. You held a gun to my head four hours ago.”

“Wrong time, wrong place, I guess,” Immortal sighs, like he’s disappointed, “Maybe next go around, huh?”

“Immortal,” the guy says, louder, “Seriously, knock it off. You’re scaring him.”

“Jealous?” Immortal finally turns his back on James, ambles across the room and sits on his table. Not _at_ his table. _On_ his table, despite the extra two chairs _right there_. There had been a fourth, once, but James had broken it when he’d been moving in. It’s odd that he’s thinking about that now, but it’s the first thing that pops into his head as Immortal makes himself comfortable.

“Quivering with it, honey,” the guy sitting like a fucking respectable human, aside from his muddy boots, rolls his eyes but Immortal looks pleased enough and James feels himself relax a little now that the attention is off of him.

Ein squirms in his arms, makes a gruff sound that lets him know she’s ready to be put down, and he kneels and sets her on the ground so she can scamper around like the energetic fuzzball she is. Immortal watches her go for a second, but it’s more entertained than anything, and...he was nice to her, like he’d promised. Maybe James could at least trust him with that. It takes a special kind of asshole to hurt an animal and they didn’t strike him as the type to hurt a puppy. He’d just watched both of them kill a man, though, so he wasn’t willing to put money on it. He tried not to gamble on games he wasn’t sure he would win.

“Who’s the - you know? The guy from the heist movies. Uh,” Immortal snaps his fingers and points at James, “Okay, Rusty, tell us more about this fundraiser.”

“Not to complain or anything,” James locks his door - because the church is in a really nice part of town but he lives half an hour away and the area isn’t nearly as good, “But, um. I watched someone I knew, if didn’t like much, get shot today, by you, and I’m not, uh. Entirely not in shock right now.”

“Huh,” The guy - James needs to get a name for him or something - looks him over, less predatory than Immortal had, and then nods at his couch and stands up, “Sit down.”

James doesn’t hesitate to obey. Immortal is terrifying in his way, something about the blasé attitude toward fucking murdering a priest and the way he flirts and plays like this is a game giving him the kind of air James would associate with the fairy tale mermaids looking to tease you into the water just deep enough to drag you to your death, but this guy is scary in a different way. More intimidating, less threatening, but James is fully convinced he’d be lacking a face if he had his way and it’s only because Immortal seems to be calling the shots that James is even alive right now.

He’s expecting to be threatened in some way, maybe hit, but the guy just goes to his sink and grabs one of the mugs off the drying rack. He turns James’ sink on, lets the tap run for a few seconds, and then fills the mug up and brings it over to James with a bored look on his face. 

He sits on James’ coffee table - which isn’t exactly sturdy, but he doesn’t look too worried about the wobbly IKEA furniture he’s using as a chair. He offers the mug and, slowly, James takes it.

“Drink it. Sip, don’t chug.”

James follows directions, takes a deep drink but stops just sort of chugging. It takes a minute to drain the mug, but the water is cold and as sweet as LA tap can be. He wipes his lips when he’s done, doesn’t look up but hands the mug back when the man motions for him to, and then the man sets the mug down on the table next to him and leans over so he’s resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them.

“Look at me, kid. Come on, I promise not to bite.”

Immortal cat calls from the table, sounding amused, but James has trouble following _these_ orders. He’s always heard that eye contact escalates, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. 

“I’m being real nice here, man,” the man speaks again when James doesn’t look up, “Work with me. Come on.”

Finally, James looks. His head feels - fuzzy, adrenaline-filled, scared. He doesn’t know what to do except to follow orders, as bad as he usually is at that, because he’s scared for his life and he’s scared for Ein, and he knows exactly what great sins he committed to deserve this but he’s _sorry_.

“See?” The man smiles, small and not nearly as threatening. It actually makes him look friendly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I…” James swallows, unsure. “No?”

“Exactly. And nothing else you’re gonna do for us is gonna be any harder than following orders, just like you did. And as long as you do what we say, then no one has to get hurt. You’re probably thinking of all those scary mob movie scenes, right?”

“Yes,” James admits, voice small.

“We aren’t gonna shoot you.” the man promises, “Or your dog. We’re just trying to get the money that Frank lost back. You know anything about that, kid?”

“No,” James drops his eyes for a second, trying to think, “He, uh, he had a thing for gambling, I guess, but…”

“That’s right.” The man nods, “He did, and he owed the man we work for a lot of money because of it. And we were sent to take care of him, because he was getting too mouthy about it. But you’re not gonna be mouthy about anything, are you?”

“No.” James shakes his head, “No, I’m - I’m not.”

“Exactly.” The man pats his knee, warm and comforting, “You’re just gonna help us out here, kid, and then you’re gonna be able to go on and walk your cute dog and work at your big church with your rich flock of lambs. Sound like a plan?”

James, actually feeling bit calmer, nodded. “Yeah… yeah, that sounds. I can do that.”

“Good.” the man squeezes his knee and then sits back, “Now. Your name is James, right?”

“Uh,” James licks his lips, “Yeah. James Wilson.”

“You can call me Hundar, and this is my partner, Immortal. Understand that if you tell anyone our names, we _will_ know that you did it.”

“I won’t,” James swears, sitting back a little, “I swear, I just - I just want this to be over. No nonsense from me.”

“Perfect.” Hundar smiles again, and it’s a nice smile. It makes James feel - reassured. He still _looks_ intimidating, but his voice is soft and his eyes squint up when he smiles and it’s, somehow, enough to make James relax a fraction. “Okay, now that we’re all introduced. Immortal, you wanna come join us? James is gonna tell us about the fundraiser. Right?”

“Yeah,” James shifts on the couch, “I - yeah. I can do that.”

“How kind.” Immortal says, hopping off his table to wander over to the couch, “Why don’t you slide on over, angelcakes. That table isn’t gonna support anymore weight than Hundar’s putting on it.” 

“It’s IKEA,” James says instead of agreeing, because it is and he doesn’t know what else to say. He does move to the other end of the couch though, so Immortal can collapse into the area he’d just vacated, sprawl out like he owns the space. Their knees brush and James inhales sharply but doesn’t try to move away.

“Most of this place looks like you bought it at IKEA.”

“They don’t exactly pay me much.” James glances from Hundar to Immortal, changes his mind and pulls himself into his corner so he’s as small as he can be. He licks his lips again, glances at the mug by Hundar’s side and decides, probably the same fucking deranged voice he follows whenever he’s doing something he _knows_ is stupid, to push his luck a little.

“Can I...have more?”

“Water?” Hundar raises an eyebrow and, when James nods a little, stands up with the mug. James, who had honestly been expecting one of them to snap at him, watches with wide eyes as he goes back to the wink to fill the mug for him again. 

“He’s a sweetheart, under the guns and muscles,” Immortal says from next to him, low and relaxed, “I think he likes you.” 

“Oh.” James looks back at Immortal, “Um. Good?”

“We’ll find out,” Immortal says, whatever _that_ means, and then Hundar’s sitting back on the coffee table and handing the mug over for James to sip at again for a few seconds before he feels ready to talk. 

“I’ve, uh, only been with the church for one of these, last year. It’s the spring fundraiser, when people donate because Easter is coming and it’s far enough past Christmas that people are back to their normal spending again. It, uh, goes towards keeping the lights on and the clergy paid. Some Samaritan work in the community. It starts on New Year, ends on Easter Sunday, and they made about six hundred thousand last year. It’s - it’s not a megachurch, but it’s...the people that come are well off and willing to pay a lot. The Mass that marks the end of the fundraiser is the one we hold on Easter Sunday.”

Immortal hums, thoughtful, “Where do you keep the money?”

“The Bishop doesn’t trust the banks so he keeps the donations somewhere on the grounds, I think. At the end of it, he has a truck come and collect everything to be deposited in the Maze.” James takes another drink, trying to remember his experiences from last year. He’d been pretty new, only a month into working with the church, still fresh and hoping that actually _being_ in a church would somehow reignite his passion for the faith and forgiveness that he’d had when he’d first applied for the seminary. It had been the best way he could think of to...repent or whatever from his crimes, but even the charity work had begun to grind at him after piling it on top of all the studying and schooling.

The water leaves a bit of a sour taste in his mouth. Probably because he’s currently discussing how to rob his church and, yeah, he’d rather rob the church than be killed, but it still - it _feels_ wrong, as it should. For the first time in a long time, he wants to pray for real, not just sit in Mass and pretend.

“Maze Bank, huh? That’s pretty good, kid. You think you could get us the account numbers and stuff?”

“Maybe? I’d have to get into his office, see if he’s got anything written down. He keeps pretty good records, I’ve heard, so he probably does.”

“Great.” Immortal claps, “That gives us, what? A month before the fundraiser starts? That’s plenty of time to set something up. Angelcakes, you can start with getting us a layout of the church, and start taking notes on everyone’s habits and patterns. Try to find that vault, get the code for it. Worse comes to worse, we steal the truck and drive off with it.” 

“Do you - am I? Do you want _me_ to do that!?”

“No,” Hundar says immediately, appeasing, “No, don’t worry. You’re just going to get us in, do some recon for us. We aren’t expecting you to James Bond anything, here.”

“Though, if you _want_ to run away with us...” Immortal wiggles his eyebrows and James wrinkles his nose up at him in a way that must be funny because both Immortal and Hundar laugh at him.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Immortal stands up, stretches his arms up and arches until there’s an audible crack and then a relieved sigh, “Fuck, what a shitty couch. Come on, babe, let’s blow this joint. We’ll give you a week to get us a layout of the lands - blueprints to the building, any secret tunnels or weird shit about the buildings, a list of people around a lot. Maybe those records, if you can get your hands on ‘em. You think you can handle that?”

“Yes,” James says firmly, because he knows that _no_ isn’t an option. 

“Great. We’ll be by in a few days. Make sure there aren’t any cops sniffing around.”

“If there are, it’s not because I told them anything.”

“Right, right. No nonsense from the almost-father. I got you.”

Hundar scoffs, but he stands up to join Immortal, gives James one last glance.

“We’ll check on you on Friday. If you don’t have all of that, that’s fine. Focus on the grounds blueprints.”

“Okay.”

James watches them leave, and then waits five minutes before getting up to go lock the door. His hands are shaking so hard when he tries to flick the lock that it takes him a good minute of trying to grip it. When he hears it click into place, he turns his back to the door and starts to pace. From the door to the couch and back, just trying to think - but his thoughts keep going in circles. 

Hundar’s gentle voice against “Let’s get Arby’s,” and Immortal’s apologetic “I’m sorry,” and how he’d been holding Ein so gently and Father Frank’s terrified face. The blood on his cassock, Sister Mary Ann stone-faced in the police station with him, shaming him for not standing up to try to save Father Frank like a good Catholic would have. James hadn’t seen her running in to help, either, but it was always easier to blame other people. Detective Shawcross’ accusing stares and Detective Luna’s pity and the guilt and fear still battling it out in his gut.

He goes around his whole apartment, face in his hands, leans against his fridge for a minute and then going to lean against his table and then sits on his couch and then stands against his door and then washes the mug he’d drank from and then takes a hot, hot, hot shower that probably uses up every ounce of hot water that the whole building has. 

He finally collapses in bed. It’s dark out, that’s enough for him. He just crawls under the blankets, Ein barking until he pulls her up with him, and then he sleeps. Hopes it’s all a nightmare.

-

He spends the next day in bed, alternating between hyperventilating and sleeping like the dead.

The day after that, he pushes his dresser out of the way, pulls up his floorboards and retrieves the last remnants of NOVA that he still has. It’s an old fucking model, especially in the world of tech, where a year’s difference meant the world, let alone _five_ , but it’s still a serviceable laptop. Protected.

He spends the whole day researching Hundar and Immortal, or trying to. In the end, he finds out that they’re mostly loan sharks, never arrested and known in the darker circles as pretty vicious but no more than any other pair of sharks. He can’t, ultimately, find out their real names or who they work for though, this boss that Frank owed so much money to. If he had to guess, he’d say they’re small timers looking to impress with a big haul to make names for themselves in their preferred circles.

Maybe, if he wanted to, he could dig into darker places, look harder - but that will open him up to being _seen_ right back, and he can’t chance it while he’s in California, of all places. The risk is too great, at least for now. It somehow figures that the Kingpin would move his operations to Los Santos not even a month after James had taken his post at the church. A funny twist of fate that could hold deadly fucking consequences for him. He shouldn’t even be _on_ this laptop.

He puts it back under his floor, hides the paneling, and sleeps.

The third day, he spends in a haze of staring at his wall, shaking with terror and half-heartedly googling for blueprints of his church. There’s no luck, he hadn’t thought there would be, and he thinks it would be a little suspicious if he just calls the Bishop up asking for a layout of the place and there’s a robbery a few months later.

Still, he’s...entirely unprepared to go back to the church, especially because he knows the second he shows his face he’ll be put back to work. 

Friday rolls around though, and the knock - more a hard _bang_ than a knock - he’s been dreading for the last few days comes, despite how he prays that it won’t.

It’s them, again, when he looks through the peephole of his door while Ein runs around his feet, barking wildly, but Hundar...has his hands full with two Starbucks cups and Immortal has one of his own, looking infinitely more bored than Hundar’s serious face, with a box in his other hand. 

He leaves the chain on the door, even though he has a feeling that either one of them could snap it in an instant, and opens it slowly, peeking through like a goddamn coward.

“Hi.”

“Open the door, angel,” Immortal wiggles his cup, “We brought Starbucks.”

“Um,” James swallows, “I...I haven’t got the stuff, yet. I haven’t...been back to the church.”

“We know.” Hundar says gently, understanding, and then repeats his partner. “We brought Starbucks and donuts. Let’s figure somethin’ out, yeah? We really don’t want to have to kill you, kid, just work with us, here.”

James hesitates for a long second, trying to decide if he wants to let them in, and then closes the door and pulls the chain down. He grabs a thin jacket to pull on and when he opens the door again, it’s so they can walk in. He shuts it behind them, locks it, and turns around to watch as Hundar beelines for his kitchen table and Immortal follows at a more meandering pace. 

“So,” Immortal says when he’s dropped the donut box and motioned James to a chair with a distracted hand, “You haven’t left this place since Monday.”

James sits carefully, looking at the Venti cup in front of him and bakers dozen of golden glazed donuts open in offering. His stomach rolls at the thought of eating or drinking anything, let alone the things that they’d brought with them, but he wraps his hands around the cup at least, feels the heat of the coffee inside.

“Having second thoughts?” Hundar asks casually, selecting a donut like it’s an important decision. He’s wearing a white button-up today, short sleeves that look ready to burst around his arms and the top two buttons undone. He’s nixed the black and gone with a pair of gray skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, and those same boots that he’d worn to the church. Even in light colors, and a white hat set backwards on his head, he looks dangerous. More frat bro dangerous than angry cowboy dangerous, but dangerous all the same.

Immortal...looks like he’s just stepped out of a photoshoot for some sort of teen fashion line. He’s wearing white skinny jeans and a pastel blue tank that makes his hair look even lighter than before, sunglasses perched on his head and beat up converse sneakers laced up over the cuffs of his jeans. It makes him look _soft_ , though the shark smile on his lips negates what his clothing choices are trying to portray. That, and all of the fucking tattoos. Both arms, from wrist to shoulder, are covered in swirls of colors and shapes that James doesn’t want to look at him long enough to recognize, and the low cut of the tank reveals some sort of chest piece with a skull and bird. 

James is still in the sweats and tank he’d wrestled on after his shower days ago now, and he’s sure he looks like death warmed over. He can’t remember the last time he ate, or really the last time he drank. He isn’t cut out for this side of things, that’s for sure. If it was information that they wanted and he had it, he would have given it to them right there on the steps of the altar.

But he doesn’t have it, and that’s why they’re at his apartment, ideally sipping from their Starbucks cups while Hundar sits across from him and Immortal leans on James’ chair, arm warm against his back.

“No.” He says, “No, just...I can’t...go back. Yet. I wasn’t - can’t, I keep seeing -” He has to break off, feeling the bile rising up. He takes a second to swallow it back, dizzy with how intense the feeling of nausea is. He’s sweating, he realizes, cold down his back, a strange dichotomy to the warmth of Immortal’s touch. 

“Keep seeing Frank, huh?” Immortal sighs, “Figures.”

“He did just see a murder,” Hundar reasons, a bit more understanding, “You look like shit. Drink.”

“I -” James starts to argue, but Immortal clears his throat and raises an eyebrow so James brings the drink to his lips and takes an obedient sip. It’s not coffee after all, but hot chocolate. In the heat of outside, that wouldn’t be as welcome as it is in the chill of his apartment and he finds himself unable to stop. His throat suddenly begs for _something_ , and it’s not water but it works.

“Okay, okay,” Immortal chuckles, low, “You’re gonna make yourself sick, angel. Relax.”

James takes a few more seconds with his drink before he reluctantly sets it back to the table and licks his lips of any stray drops. 

“Now eat.” Hundar pushes the donuts closer and James finds that it’s the same pattern - reluctantly taking a donut and then devouring it so rapidly that he’s almost surprised he had it in the first place. 

“You can keep going,” Hundar offers again, and James eats three before he’s finally satisfied enough to stop. 

He takes another, more careful, sip of his hot chocolate, and finds that he feels a lot more steady than before. His headache, at least, has lessened.

“There,” Immortal pats his shoulder, touch deceptively soft, “Now, go take a shower and get cleaned up.”

“Um,” James looks between them, more thrown off by their behavior than if they’d broken his door down and shoved a gun at him again.

“Go,” Immortal points to his bathroom door, just behind the short railing that separates his sleeping area from the rest of the apartment. “Unless you want some company? I wouldn’t mind helping you wash your hair.”

He drops his eyelids, smirk turning into something a little more teasing, a little more inviting, and James feels his entire face go hot.

“Immortal,” Hundar says, longsuffering, “Stop harassing him. Go take a shower, kid. He won’t bother you.”

Immortal practically pouts at Hundar and James takes the distraction of those dark eyes to slip out of his chair and retreat to the bathroom. Ein doesn’t follow him, busy begging for a scrap of something from the two men at his table, and he closes the door. Despite Hundar’s words, he locks it behind him.

His bathroom isn’t big - he has the tiniest washing unit known to man, big enough for a couple pairs of slacks and a handful of shirts that he has to air dry with a big fan he keeps under his bed, and it needed to be filled and emptied manually; a toilet and sink and a small shower barely big enough for one person. The showerhead isn’t friendly to caddies so all of his washing gels are on the ground, but the mirror above the sink hides a cabinet, mostly empty. 

He takes a shower. He barely feels the water, though it may be colder than he usually prefers, and he spends a long time with his hair, carefully washing and conditioning his curls under the spray until his heartbeat is back to normal. 

He brushes his teeth afterward, and shaves his cheeks until his beard is back to a reasonable shape. He has a single towel, which he uses to dry off, but no clean clothes with him. He isn’t going to leave the bathroom naked, so he pulls his sweats and tank back on and dries his hair as well as he can with the towel before he pulls his jacket on again and leaves the relative safety of the bathroom.

He does, with food and liquid in his body and freshly cleaned, feel a lot calmer. His hands have stopped shaking, at least, and the sight of the two of them sitting at his table, sharing Hundar’s drink between them, doesn’t immediately send him spiraling again.

If they were going to hurt him, they wouldn’t have brought him hot chocolate and donuts and made him shower to calm down. He just has to remember that. If he follows orders, like Hundar said, they wouldn’t hurt him or Ein.

“There he is,” Immortal catches sight of him first, having been angled to face the bathroom, and he wolf whistles, “Damn, you clean up nice.”

James crosses his arms, frowning at him. “I’m wearing the same thing I was wearing before.”

“Yeah?” Immortal shrugs and gives him an appreciative once-over.

“Keep it in your pants,” Hundar shoves at Immortal’s thigh and beckons James over, “Come on. Let’s talk.”

James runs a nervous hand through his damp hair and then shoves it up and into a messy bun with the tie around his wrist. It’d been there since Monday, too, and he hadn’t even taken it off in the shower so it leaves a deep, dark bruise where it’s been digging in for far too long. 

Immortal moves aside for him to sit down again, sitting on the tiny kitchen counter a few feet away instead of leaning all in his space again, and Ein stands up on her back paws to rest her front paws and head on his foot and give him big eyes.

“It’s, uh,” James points to the cabinet next to Immortal’s head, “Her treats are up there.”

“That’s adorable,” Immortal practically cooes and twists to rummage around in James’ cabinet while Hundar brings him back to attention.

“You haven’t gone back to the church. We need you to do that. You see the dilemma here, kid?”

“Yes,” James looks down at the table, hands clasped in his lap.

“So,” Hundar watches him, face set in a serious line that makes him look older than he maybe is, “We need to come to a compromise here. I was being real with you, man, we don’t want to have to hurt you. But at this point, you’ve seen our face and you know our plans. You’re not giving us much of a choice.”

“I swear,” James swallows, squeezing his fingers together and concentrating on the green siren on his cup, “I swear, I’ll do it. I will. I just. I wasn’t sure I could...go back into the cathedral, after…”

“After you got all nice and personal with Father Frankie’s holy blood?” Immortal finishes for him, and James refuses to look at him again. Instead, he nods.

“You’re going to have to.” Hundar reaffirms, “And soon. We’re putting quite a bit of...faith in you, James. And I wanna keep having that faith, but if we don’t get any results…”

He didn’t have to finish the suggestion, but Immortal did for him, sounding bored.

“Then you’ll be meeting your heavenly father a lot sooner than you thought, angel.”

“I understand,” James says, voice weak. “I’ll...I can go back on Monday. I don’t think I can handle a Mass just yet, they’ll be talking about it and ...and, yeah, but I can...I can go in on Monday.”

“Perfect,” Immortal hops off the counter with the box of puppy treats and kneels down, letting Ein jump on him while he pours a handful into his palm but refuses to feed her until she’s sitting calmly, “Then I’ll be there Monday.”

“You’ll - uh, what?” James looks between Immortal and Hundar, the slow heartbeat he’s managed to regain losing out to the panicked rhythm of before, “But -”

“Sorry, angel,” Immortal says, not sounding sorry at all, “But you’ve proven yourself a bit of a scardy-cat, and I don’t have the time to fuck with that. So I’ll be meeting you at noon and we’ll be breaking into the Bishop’s office. Got it?”

“But - I,” James blinks at him, dread coiling, “I don’t need -”

“Oh,” Immortal interrupts, laughing a little, not looking away from Ein as he feeds her the last of his handful, “You’ve got it twisted, angelcakes. I don’t actually give a shit if you agree or not. That’s what’s happenin’.”

He stands up and dusts his knees off, somehow managing to look both dangerous and innocent all at once.

James turns to look at Hundar, ready to plead his case, but Hundar just shrugs and looks the very barest hint of regretful.

“That’s another thing we should nip in the bud,” Immortal continues, moseying across the feet of distance between them. James’ lungs stop functioning right about the time Immortal lifts a hand to his face and gently tilts it up with the tips of his fingers under James’ chin. He doesn’t stop until James’ head is tilted nearly all the way back and their eyes can meet.

Immortal’s eyes are _dark_ , the kind of eyes James would think attractive except for how cold they are as they look at him despite the slight quirk of his lips.

“Hundar here, he’s a sweetheart. He _likes_ you. He might even watch your back, if need be,” Immortal leaned down, breath ghosting across James’ face, peppermint sharp, “But just remember, angel. _I_ call the shots. You wanna beg, you be my guest. But it better be to me.”

He doesn’t ask if James understands, because James very much does and they all know it. He swallows hard, feeling some sort of way about how close Immortal is, fear and what he might shamefully call arousal making him squeeze his eyes shut. He can admit that he has a bit of a thing for bad guys, it’s how NOVA had got started in the first place, fuckin’ _Jordan_ , but _this_ level of bad fuckin’ guy is ridiculous, even for him.

“Okay.” He says, and wonders if he’s even managed to make it audible. 

He must’ve, because Immortal strokes one finger down the line of his windpipe and then lets his face go, just leaves the single finger under his chin.

“So, you have something you wanna ask for?” Immortal prompts, sounding pleased and gentle, now. Like he had a handful of treats and was just waiting for James to sit calmly.

“The Bishop leaves his office around two,” James swallows, can feel the trail of Immortal’s finger on his throat, “It - Noon won’t work. You should come around two.”

Immortal hums, low, thoughtful, “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you in the cathedral around two, angel. That works.”

James doesn’t nod, but he must have done something right because Immortal strokes his cheek with his thumb just once and lets his face go. When he lowers his head down, cheeks warm, Hundar is watching them, gaze heated in a way James pretends he doesn’t understand.

They leave a few minutes later, as pleasant as they’d come. James locks the door after them and then sits on his floor and pulls his knees to his chest and puts his head in his arms. Ein comes to him after a few seconds, nosing at his legs, jumping on him like she wants to wiggle into his lap and gnaw at one of his fingers.

He lets her, lost in the thoughts storming his brain.

He’s at an impasse. He can’t turn them in; there’s no telling who they have on their side - if they have a crew that would come after James, or even if the PD will have enough to keep them away from him, let alone behind bars. He’s got two choices left to him; go through with the job and help them rob the church and then get a fifty-fifty shot at them keeping their word and letting him go or betraying him and either turning him in to a patsy or just killing him. Or...or.

Or, he could revive NOVA. Have them taken care of in exchange for a favor from someone with skills like his. He’s rusty, of course he is, he hasn’t touched a keyboard for impure reasons since he shut his set up down in Philly for the last time five years ago, but he’s sure he could get back into the swing of it if needs be. A hit on two small time loan sharks in exchange for NOVA owing a favor isn’t a bad deal, not for a lot of people.

Frank’s face flashes through his brain, with blood and brains and the terror of death on his face.

James has been complicit in deaths before, but never directly. And never so closely. He doesn’t like it. He...doesn’t think he could handle it, having their blood on his hands. Hundar, who brought him water twice in a row and made him eat or even Immortal, for all his flirtations and casual terrorizing. Even after what they’d done, he doesn’t think he could wash that from his skin. 

Still. Still, it’s an option. One he has, if this gets to be too much. A _last resort_ option, because if he revives NOVA, there won’t be a second escape from someone like the Kingpin unless he flees the country, but...an option all the same.

Ein snuffles against his freshly shaved cheek and he clutches at her tiny body, scrubs a hand through his soft fur, and just breathes.

They left the donuts.


	2. If you were church, I'd get on my knees (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends!!!! technically its wednesday now but listen i had a lot ot do today and time escaped e BUT i POSTED before i went to sleep so i mean. i think that counts. at least im on a schedule this time around ;)
> 
> BIG HUGE H U G E shout out to @cibmata, who is betaing for me and saving my life and also my pride by not letting me post the trash fire that the draft for this fic is wiithout looking it over first!!!!! i so appreciate all ur effort and i dont deserve u 
> 
> i hope u guys enjoy <3

The church is just a building, as far as James is concerned.

Built only fifty years back, it’s tall beyond words and wide enough to fit the congregation of almost one thousand every Mass. Every one of nearly twenty windows are painted glass and alternate between peaceful scenes of the Virgin surrounded by a flock of adoring animals, and the markedly less peaceful story of the crucifixion.

It all leads to the largest window of them all, which spans multiple panes of glass that come together to form the image of Christ — complete with graphic depictions of the nails, spear, and crown of thorns. His agonized face stares down at them all, His eyes spanning from the first pew and all the way back to the door.

The altar is on a stage of sorts, three stairs above the rest of the room with an ornate table where the bible is placed for reading and where candles are lit during services. An elaborate set up of iconography of the saints are lined up behind the table, each one more beautiful than the last, priceless in more ways than one. The centerpiece is a simple wood carving of the Son.

The confessional, James has spent… far too many hours in. Cleaning, mostly, but he’s spent his fair share of time quietly confessing to the supposedly anonymous face on the other side of the partition. It’s bigger than most confessionals, enough room on both sides to sit comfortably like the church is implying you may be in there for a while. The partition is a weave of dark wood in the shape of diamonds just wide enough to fit a finger or two through. Fixed to the wall of the confessor’s side is a small, bronze statue of Christ on the cross, the same agonized eyes on those who confess.

With the lights dimmed and the sunlight beaming through the orange and brown glass of the crucifixion depiction, the main room is often bathed in a warm, soft lighting. It isn’t exactly welcoming to newcomers, but it’s familiar and comfortable for James, when he has the time and opportunity to come and sit for a few minutes.

This time… this time, not so much. It’s like he’s being watched as he goes pew by pew, checking hymn booklets and bibles and donation cards. Like He knows, and of course He does, that James is waiting for Immortal to show up.

The bishop had left nearly ten minutes ago on his daily trip to the convent to pray with the sisters and go over the Advent programs with the Reverend Mother. He’d left James behind, when James had asked for time alone to pray over Father Frank’s passing and make his peace with it.

They’d looked at him with pitying eyes. All of them except for Sister Mary Ann, who had looked at him with contempt. Blame, even. James couldn’t blame her in return, for all that he’d have liked to see her pull her fuckin’ skirt up and fight off two armed gangsters if she was so tough.

But they’d left, and now he’s alone, the only one in the church proper. When Immortal showed up, James would lead him behind the altar, through the back room, and into the small office building. This is where the bishop’s office is, as well as the counseling rooms and the small-children care centers.

He’s shuffling new donation cards into the slots where their most generous, if most often tardy, patrons usually sit when he notices a figure out of the corner of his eye. When he turns, it’s so fast that he sends the cards scattering across the floor.

“Heya, angel.”

Immortal looks different again. That first day, he’d looked like a douchy gangster, and then like a teenbopper model when he’d come back to James’ apartment. Now, standing in the church, he looks like he belongs. Neat slacks, a nice white dress shirt with a small, golden cross on the breast pocket. Dark, thick-rimmed glasses that both obscure his face and almost transform it. He even, much to James’ disgust, is wearing a pair of dress shoes, just scuffed enough to look worn but shined enough to look cared for.

“Don’t call me that,” James finds himself snapping, looking away quickly and kneeling to start picking up the cards again. His hands shake where he’s using his nail to get a hold of them instead of just pushing them with his fingers.

Immortal comes over, his stride confident enough that it echoes through the church, and kneels right across from him in the aisle. He starts to help to collect the scattered donation cards, looking both amused and pleased. It looks uncharacteristically innocent and kind behind his glasses, his eyes magnified and soft through the lenses.

“Getting things ready for the fundraiser?” he asks casually, and James’ tongue is thick with worry that they’ll be caught, that Immortal will be recognized, so he just nods.

“Relax.” Immortal stands up and offers him a hand, which he takes with little enthusiasm. He accepts the donation cards, shuffles them all together again and then slides them firmly into one of the pew pockets.

“I am relaxed,” he finally says as he smoothes down the black material of his cassock, dusts off his knees.

“You look like I'm going to eat you,” Immortal teases, stepping closer. “Don't worry, angelcakes. I won't bite until you ask.”

“Go ahead and hold your breath on that,” James grumbles. In the light of day, and in a place where he feels like he’s got a little more control than his shoebox studio, it’s easier to keep his shit together and not shake apart under Immortal’s weirdly threatening flirtations. Immortal just cackles as James glances around to make sure the coast really is clear.

“Follow me. If we see anyone, just tell then you're interested in joining the congregation. December has a pretty high conversion rate for us.”

“That so?” Immortal asks, sounding only barely interested.

James doesn't bother responding, not willing to waste the breath nor to take the risk of irritating him too much. Hundar isn't around and James isn't sure what will reign Immortal in if he decides teasing James is more important than doing whatever it is they're supposed to be accomplishing here. Immortal, as far as James has seen, is pulled more often by whim than logic. It’s a trait that saved James’ life though, so he won’t complain too much.

Immortal follows close behind, almost too close, but James manages to get them behind the altar, through the back room, and into the offices without any trouble from either his new shadow or any other staff.

The offices are empty, and would hopefully stay that way for however long Immortal is skulking around. Father Frank is one thing but James doesn't want anyone else hurt if he can help it.

“Here.” He stops in front of the farthest door to the left; the bishop’s office. When he tries the handle, it doesn't give. “Locked. Better luck next time?”

Immortal scoffs quietly, and then a warm hand is at his elbow, lightly pushing him out of the way so Immortal can kneel in front of the door and pull out a small black satchel. He unzips it and chooses a few long, thin pins of metal and something with a sort of hook, and James has never seen lockpicks before but he can put together the context clues.

“You're lucky,” Immortal says quietly as he gets to work, slipping one of the pins into the keyhole and then sliding the hook in with a focus James really hadn't thought him capable of. “I don't get on my knees for just anyone.”

James’ face goes pink and he brutally suppresses every single image those words bring to mind before they can form properly.

“Maybe if you’d spent more time on your knees at the cross, we wouldn't be here,” he manages, keeps his voice soft despite the bite of his words.

It makes Immortal laugh, though, amused and rich. “Oh, angel, a cross wouldn't appreciate what I do on my knees nearly as much as you would.”

James clears his throat loudly, or as loudly as he dares. “You're in a church, dude.”

“Makes it hotter, yeah?”

“Are you almost done?” he asks peevishly. “We only have an hour, tops.”

In response, Immortal turns the handle and the door clicks open. James is still pulling himself together when Immortal stands up and tucks his lockpicks away.

“I’ll keep watch,” he says, back to business. “You hunt down what we need.”

The office isn’t nearly as ornate as the main room. The bishop is a pretty good guy, all things considered, and James wouldn’t peg him as one of those embezzling assholes or someone who preys on the vulnerable or abuses his power. Hell, he’s counselled _James_ a time or two. Sat and prayed with him that morning over Father Frank’s death and any guilt he might feel for it.

That… had made him feel more guilty, honestly.

There’s the desk, which is probably the nicest thing in the room; cherry wood and neatly organized with a computer to one side and tidy piles of papers to the other. A jar of pens, a well-cared for but well-worn bible. There’s a bookshelf, too, packed with all shapes and sizes of books, and in the far corner, a small table draped in red cloth and a single chair where the bishop takes meals. Otherwise, the walls are covered with paintings of Saints and a few hanging pictures of congregation members past, present, and in the case of one pregnant woman with a smiling man next to her, future.

James pushes past Immortal, ignores the rest of the office and heads straight for the ancient desktop computer. It's a box with a mouse and keyboard possibly older than James is, and - yes, Windows 7. Lord Almighty.

“This… may take a second,” he says, then digs around in his pockets until he finds his drive. He’d unearthed it from his emergency go bag this morning and cleaned it up for this exact purpose.

It takes him a second to find a port in the tower but he manages after twisting it around a little and, instead of trying to find anything specific, just sets it to scan and copy every file on the damn thing onto the drive. He doubts this thing is capable of half the memory of his own, even five years out of date, so he’s not too worried about it. They probably keep their archives online somewhere, maybe with a private company? He’ll get what he can from the desktop and go further later if he has to.

For now, he leaves it to scan and starts shuffling through the contents of the desk itself. Programs for the next few events, lesson plans for the coming Sunday School volunteers that need to be approved. Budget sheets with nothing relevant on them, correspondence with other churches, something in a laminated sheet directly from the Vatican. No less than four separate, small bibles.

It’s while he’s digging through the bottom desk drawer that he finally finds the balance book, a checkbook tucked neatly into its sleeve.

Feeling the eyes of every painted Saint in the room, he takes pictures of one of the checks and of the last few pages of the balance book. It’s almost full, they replace it every year, but he’s able to get pictures of the January, February, and March pages from the last fundraiser, too.

Proof that there really was as much money as he and Frank had promised.

“Yo.” Immortal catches his attention, looking out through the crack in the office door. “Voices.”

James tries not to panic as he checks the status on the scan.

“I need another minute.”

“We don't have another minute,” Immortal steps into the room and looks around. “We need a place to hide.”

“He shouldn't be back so soon,” James mutters to himself, watching the little green bar at the top of the screen tick past the 90% mark. He just needs sixty more seconds.

“I can hear them coming down the hall,” Immortal hisses, and then closes the office door as quietly as he can and flicks the lock. “You better have a good excuse for how and why we’re in here, angelcakes.”

James waves a hand toward him distractedly as the green ticks up to the 96% mark. He can hear them too, now, the soft voices of the bishop and Sister Mary Ann. He looks wildly around the room to try to figure something out. They’re going to be caught, and he’s going to be in a lot of trouble for being in here, and suspicion is not going to be cast aside in a few months when the entire fundraiser’s earnings go missing.

He spots the table. Its red cloth is long enough to brush the floor.

“Under the-,” He points sharply. “Get under there.”

“Under the _table_? Are you serious?” Immortal hisses at him, but he does as he’s told. He drops to his knees and lifts the cloth, gestures wildly when it’s made very clear that there’s going to be just enough room for them both if they literally fuse into the same person.

But Immortal goes, climbs under and James hears the bishop and Sister Mary Ann stop right outside. The door is too thick for him to make out words, but he’s not trying to listen in. Instead, the bar finally hits 100% and he jerks the flash drive out of the port, twists the tower back into place, and scurries so fast to the table that he nearly trips over the skirt of his cassock.

Immortal yanks him under and they struggle to make their bodies fit as the sound of keys jingling just barely makes it to his ears.

“You and your goddamned-,” Immortal says venomously, and then he grabs the hem of James’ cassock and starts to shove it up.

“What are you _doing_?!” James nearly shrieks, as much as a whisper can be a shriek, but Immortal just slaps his hands away with a dark look and James lets him shove the skirt up until it’s pooling around his hips and his slacks are revealed.

The lock starts to turn just as Immortal pushes him onto his back and crawls on top of him, James’ knees to either side of his hips. The cloth falls into place, but it doesn’t cover them completely until James pulls his arms in close and, unable to squeeze them between he and Immortal, lays them above his head and folds them as close as he can.

He’s so uncomfortably close to Immortal that he can feel nearly his entire body, taut thighs against parts of James that shouldn’t be being _touched_ and tense arms to either side of his head, supporting Immortal so that he isn’t just laying on top of him. James can see that his back is near flush to the bottom of the table, the both of them glazed with dim red lighting from what little sunlight peaks through the office window and makes it through the dense fabric.

“So,” Immortal says, voice so soft even James has trouble hearing him over the sound of the door being opened. He lowers his head until he’s so close he’s practically kissing the shell of James’ ear, close enough that his glasses brush against James’ temple, “come here often?”

“Not the _time_ ,” James breathes back, wishing his hands were close enough to fucking pinch him or something. Instead, he stares hard at the bottom of the table and clenches his fists, tries to ignore the warm breath, the smug shark smile he can feel against his ear. Immortal is like a furnace above his body, hot enough between his legs to make his slacks uncomfortable where they’re bunched up.

“Just a moment, Sister,” the bishop says, “I’m so forgetful these days. All the way to the convent, and without the lesson plans!”

“It’s perfectly understandable, your Excellency,” Sister Mary Ann says, sounding as kind as James has ever heard her. She’d never liked him, not from the moment she’d met him, and he’s convinced it’s partly because he isn’t the same pasty white as most of the rest of the congregation and partly because she can smell the lack of conviction in him. Here, though, she sounds almost like a normal old broad, like someone he’d hear talking at the store instead of her usual severity.

“After what happened with the good Father, may he rest in peace…” The bishop sighs. “To think, Frank… he’s been with us longer than most of the Sisters, even! And on the steps of our very altar. And _oh_ , James, he’s taken it so hard.”

“Has he?” Sister Mary Ann’s tone changes. “He seems rather… Oh, but I shouldn’t say that. Forgive me.”

James ducks his head, breathes out slow and doesn’t react otherwise. Immortal pulls back to look down on him, his eyes near black in the low light, the smile gone and something more intense in its place. The glasses don’t soften this look and James forces himself to keep his breathing even and quiet.

 _Stop looking at me_ , James wants to demand, but doesn’t dare risk it. Instead, he glares, hopes that the stinging in his eyes isn’t so obvious.

“I know you’ve had your doubts about him,” the bishop continues, gentle, “but he’s a good man. He has kind eyes, he works well with the youth. We need fresh blood in this congregation, and I believe he’s just the man for the job.”

James blinks, guilt settling so heavy in his gut that it nearly suffocates him. Lord. Shit, what is he doing? Something _selfish_ , that’s what. He can send Ein to his mom, or to Joe’s back in Colorado. Joe’s already in love with her even though he’s only seen her through a few FaceTime sessions. And with her safe, he can go to the police, or - shit, so many things. He can do so many other things than _robbing his church_ -

Immortal’s fingers are gentle when he uses them to grip James’ face, just like in his apartment. The crook between his thumb and pointer makes a firm rest for James’ chin, the pads of his fingers digging just a bit into his cheeks as he forces James to look up and back at him.

He doesn’t say anything, but he leans down until they’re so close that James can’t breathe for fear of brushing against him, until Immortal is a near suffocating weight. His eyes are like traps, drawing James in and holds him fast with the fire welling up inside of them.

James swallows, all of his thoughts grinding to a halt under that gaze. He’s sweating. Under Immortal and the cassock and the cloth and the guilt, he feels like he’s melting.

Immortal strokes his cheek with the two fingers that had been digging in, still so gentle it’s almost too much, and James wants to close his eyes but he’s still looking into Immortal’s and he can’t escape. He squirms, overwhelmed with heat and contact, needing some sort of break from one or the other or both, but Immortal just brings his lips to his ear again.

“You’re going to get us caught,” he says, more a wisp of air than real words, and James goes still again, takes some sort of weird comfort in the hold Immortal has on him. A reminder that this isn’t something he’s doing by choice, but because he’s being manipulated.

“Perhaps,” Sister Mary Ann says, and that seems to be the end of it because the bishop shuffles a few more papers and James hears them leave the office again, the door clicking shut and the lock turning.

Immortal doesn’t let go of him.

“You know, angelcakes,” he says, still as quiet as he’d been when they’d had company. “He’s not wrong. You’ve got soft eyes. They give you away, every time.”

“Fuck you,” James manages, tries to shake his face loose and just ends up being held tighter until he stops and Immortal gentles his grip again.

“We could,” Immortal says thoughtfully and glances down between them, where they’re still pressed so close together that it’s fucking indecent, even with the both of them fully clothed. “I wouldn’t say no to getting you like this, sans clothes.”

“You murdered my mentor and threatened my puppy and now you’re making me rob a church,” James lists harshly. “I wouldn’t sleep with you even if I _wasn’t_ celibate.”

“ _Celibate_?!” Immortal looks back at him, actually surprised, and completely ignoring the accusations. “You? With that face?”

“I beg your fuckin’ pardon?” James demands. “What does _that_ mean?!”

Immortal grins, and it makes him look younger and more innocent. James isn’t _actually_ worried about his virtue here, he can kind of tell that Immortal is just teasing him, that he’s just a natural flirt, but the point stands that he isn’t going to let _that_ go.

“It means,” Immortal says, “that you’ve got a cute fuckin’ face. God don’t appreciate a body like this as much as I would.”

“Wouldn’t Hundar get jealous if you stepped out on him with a choir boy?” James lifts his hands to push at Immortal’s shoulders and then at the hand on his face, which is starting to get uncomfortable. Immortal lets his face go but doesn’t move away just yet.

“Oh, angel.” Immortal’s grin drops into something smaller, darker, voice lowering to match. “He’d be right there, watching us. Or maybe touching you, too.”

James… can’t help the shiver. But, at Immortal’s smug fucking face, he finally loses the strings of fear holding him back enough to shove at him again, harder, until he finally gets the message and rolls out from under the table. James takes a few seconds to just - fucking breathe, ignore what’s happening with his body and his brain and everything and _breathe_.

“Come on, dude,” Immortal knocks on the table. “Let’s fuckin’ go, I have shit to do.”

James inhales slow and deep, and then crawls out from under the table, too. He straightens out his cassock, slaps Immortal’s hands away when he tries to smooth down the front for him.

“So, did you get it?” Immortal asks, flicking the lock on the office door open.

“I got everything on the computer.” James shrugs, looking anywhere but at him and his stupid hair and face and eyes. His own face is so fucking hot he can barely think.

“Great, I’ll just-” Immortal reaches out, but James blinks at him, not sure if Immortal is joking.

“Oh, you aren’t kidding,” he says when Immortal just looks at him expectantly. “Why the hell would I give this to you right now? You could literally just shoot me in the head and leave with everything.”

“And, uh,” Immortal raises an eyebrow at him, looking around like he’s checking for something. “What’s - what’s stopping me from doing that right now and just taking it?”

“The fact that I used a password protected drive.” James doesn’t actually wave the drive in front of his face, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. It feels… good, to finally have some sort of upper hand that isn’t quite as _up_ as putting a hit out on them. “I’ll give you the information an’ all, but I’ll be there when you look at it. Safety measure.”

“Oh.” Immortal looks at him again, but with a different kind of gleam in his eye. “Look at you, angel. Maybe you aren’t so empty-headed after all.”

“Fuck you,” he snaps. “Now, just - just get out of my church. I can show you anything I find when I’ve had the chance to go through it.”

“I like this new you.” Immortal licks his bottom lip, just a flick of his tongue. But James can read the meaning behind it and he tries not to let his face burn any more than it already is. “Maybe they would’a sainted you or somethin’, dyin’ a martyr trying to protect dear old Father Frank. Maybe you’re more cut out for this than you think.”

 _You have no idea_ , James almost says.

Instead, he scrunches his face into a sneer. “I’m not a great transitional deacon. But, like I said; new vows, new man. This… this isn’t gonna continue on with me. It ends after this. Right?”

“Right, angel.” Immortal shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls the door open with the other. “Just this one time. Now, after you,” he says with a slight bow, motioning for James to leave, and James does with a long stride and one more glare.

He doesn’t walk Immortal out, but he still watches him go from where he’s pretending to polish one of the statues of the apostles.

-

“Oh, Ein,” he says when he’s home alone, curled up in his bed with his laptop open and Ein’s head on his thigh. She snuffles at him, blinking lazily, not at all concerned for him.

“Einy, we’re kinda fucked, huh?”

She snuffles again, closes her eyes to sleep. He lets himself watch her for a second before he gets back to work. There’s a lot to look through and he’d gotten a message from an unknown number with an address and a time and date that’s only three days away.

Yep. Definitely kinda fucked.

He tries not to think of the jokes he knows Immortal, or maybe even Hundar, would make about that if they heard him say it.

-

The address is an apartment. Nicer than James’, but not outrageously so, and in an area where it's pretty obvious that people know how to mind their own business.

It's a complex instead of just one building, and the address leads him to a corner door with a thin pathway from the sidewalk to the door.

He watches his Uber leave, having decided against bringing his own car around for plausible deniability. He’d even made a new account with Uber using a burner number he’d set up for himself. There aren't many precautions he can take that he’s completely sure are risk-free, but he can at least go this far.

There are, to his surprise, a number of cared-for plants along the walk to the door; pale ferns toward the end that slowly transition into pretty little flowers and, finally, a potted tree of some sort in the corner of the square of space that the door opens into.

He's early, but only by a few minutes, so he knocks as confidently as he can. Then he waits, as still as he can be, for someone to answer.

The unknown number had said nine and James doesn’t want to know how they figured out that his days off were alternating Thursdays, but here he is, with the filtered information and a balance of good news and bad.

He waits. And waits. And waits some more. At nine exactly, he knocks again. At five past, he musters enough balls to just start hammering on the door insistently and has decided he won't be stopping until someone answers or his hand falls off.

Finally, he hears a muffled yell from the other side of the door and some stomping around, loud cursing.

When Hundar opens the door, he’s in boxers printed with multicolored bunny heads and one sock, hair a mess.

“What the _fuck-_ ” he practically snarls, eyes still mostly closed with sleep. “It's nine in the _morning_ , jackass, who even - James?” He blinks, squints, rubs his face, “Dude, what the fuck, man.”

“You _said_ nine,” James bristles, having shrunk under the yelling but quickly finding his footing in his indignation. “One of you assholes told me to come, so if you're gonna throw a fit then it better be at your partner.”

“Nine at _night,_ kid.” Brett rubs his face again and he lifts an arm to lean against his doorway. James keeps his eyes very pointedly on his face and not the big arms and defined chest, the soft belly and dark hair growing in a telling trail that disappears into his boxers.

“I have work at six in the morning tomorrow, did you really think I was gonna come to your apartment at nine at night? You live like thirty minutes away! You’re insane.”

“I have a gun,” Hundar reminds him glumly. “And knives.”

“Yeah, well, I have information, so.” James crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Is this happening or am I going home and leaving you two to break into my apartment again?”

Hundar sighs and steps aside. “Come in, I guess. Shoes off.”

“I literally hate everything about you two,” James mutters and ducks under Hundar’s obnoxiously nice arm to toe his sneakers off on the little mat just past the doorway.

They can shoot a priest, but shoes in the house is a hard line, apparently.

“Who was it, babe?” He hears the voice from deeper in the apartment and looks up in time to see Immortal yawning into the back of his hand as he walks out into the hall. He, once again, looks completely different from any other time James has seen him, though probably not by design this time.

His hair is a disaster, sticking up like he’s cosplaying Naruto, and he’s also just in his underwear, though his boxer briefs are tight enough that James gets an eyeful before he tilts his head up to stare at the ceiling. His tattoos are on full display and there are just - so many. Up his arms, down his sides, his chest, his legs. James is almost jealous.

“It’s the good father,” Hundar says, accusatory. “I _told_ you noon would have been better.”

“Oh, _angelcakes_ ,” Immortal laughs, pleased and much more awake. “You actually came. What are you staring at?”

“Probably anywhere but your very naked body, dear,” Hundar sighs, delivering the pet name with just a little force. “Just. Wait in the living room.”

He directs that last part to James, who nods and swallows every single thing he can think to say, and goes to the couch he can see down the hallway.

It means he has to pass Immortal, who whistles at him like _he’s_ the one only wearing Superman print undies.

“I hate you,” he repeats as he passes him, staring at the couch.

“Sure, angel,” Immortal fucking purrs, “that's definitely what's making your face all red.”

“Bedroom,” Hundar interrupts, though he sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

James _hates_ them.

He stands by the couch and purposely refuses to look around despite the curiosity in his belly. He can't help but hear though; the quiet sounds of shifting clothes and soft voices, the tick of a clock somewhere, Hundar's sharp laugh.

By the time they come to join him, he's given into the urge to at least glance through the living room.

There's a pretty big flat screen on the wall, definitely the most expensive thing in sight, and a welcomingly overstuffed armchair that doesn't match the couch. They have a coffee table, where a still-packed bowl is laying next to what James will never admit to knowing is a baggie of weed and a stick lighter.

Still, it's a sick looking bowl, all swirling colors and in the vaguest shape of a shark, complete with a wedge on the pipe for a tailfin.

Now that James thinks about it, it matches Immortal’s tattoos.

There’s a stack of coasters in the middle of the table, and that might be the funniest thing James has ever seen. These two _murder people for money_ but they own a set of coasters.

Aside from the weed, there's nothing particularly out of place. It looks lived in, dishes in the sink of the kitchen that a counter separates from the living room, knick-knacks and books bent and lined with wear on the bookshelf, like three different gaming systems and a whole cabinet of games right under the flatscreen.

There are no pictures though, nothing to really personalize it except for a single framed photo on the side table next to the chair.

It's of the two of them, but much younger. Immortal has brown hair and his eyes squint up in an actual smile without any of the usual bite in it, and Hundar has a clean-shaven face and though he’s not quite smiling he looks soft, arms much less defined than they are now looped around Immortal’s waist.

They're both wearing tuxes and there's little bits of white - rice, maybe - sprinkled over them both, in their hair and on their clothes.

Well that… that confirms that. Above and beyond confirms that.

He's still looking at it and trying to tie _married_ and _murderers_ together in his head - like fucking Bonnie and Clyde - when Immortal joins him in the living room.

“Cute, ain't we?” He grins, and it actually looks happy. “Bet we didn’t strike you as the type to tie the knot.”

“No,” James admits, “I figured you were together, but not, well.”

“Don't listen to whatever he tells you,” Hundar breaks in, much more awake and from the kitchen. “He proposed to me _twice_ and cried when he said his vows.”

“ _Babe_ ,” Immortal whines, voice cracking, betrayed, and James finds himself laughing before he can stop himself.

“I have a gun,” Immortal says to him severely, but the mirroring of his _spouse’s_ words only a few minutes earlier just makes James laugh harder.

He tries to stop himself, covering his mouth with his hand, but he can't help it and Immortal just looks put out rather than actually angry.

“Coffee?” Hundar asks from the kitchen when James’ giggles have subsided and he's kind of just standing in the middle of the living room. Immortal sprawls on the couch and watches him with what James wouldn't dare call a pout to his face.

“Uh.” James hesitates. “Sure?”

Hundar doesn't respond, but James watches him pull out three mismatched mugs and start to fill a kettle in the sink.

“Sit down, angelcakes.” Immortal motions to the overstuffed chair. “You're making me nervous and it's too fuckin’ early for anxiety.”

“It's never too early for anxiety,” Hundar mutters just loudly enough to be heard, and it makes Immortal grin again, that same soft, unguarded look he’d had when they’d looked at the wedding picture, and James doesn’t like at all how human they suddenly seem.

He liked it better when Immortal was just a monster.

It makes how close they’d been under the table feel… more wrong than before. That Immortal had been so close to him, propositioned him, when he had a husband at home.

Except.

 _He’d be right there watching us_ , he’d said. That maybe Hundar would be touching him, too.

James… isn’t fast enough to stop the image that time - he and Immortal in that same position, ‘sans clothes,’ while Hundar watches with dark eyes and a smirk, or drags his hand over James’ body.

He shoves the thought away almost as soon as it forms, feeling his face flushing hot and bright with embarrassment.

Okay. Enough. Obviously he’s feeling guilty. If it’s still eating at him like this by the time he leaves, he’ll tell Hundar himself just in case Immortal didn’t and that will be the end of it.

“So.” He clears his throat and sits primly on the edge of the chair, careful not to sink into it. “I went through the stuff we got from the office.”

“Hold it,” Immortal interrupts. “It’s not even ten in the morning. No business talk until-,”

“After the first cup,” Hundar finishes for him and it should be like, a cute couple ‘finish each other’s sentences’ thing, but he sounds exasperated. “Excuse us, James, I forgot that His Highness refuses to be an adult until noon.”

“Hey.” Immortal tilts his head back, like he’s aiming his voice at where Hundar is pouring boiling water into the cups. “I told you, it’s _His Excellency_ now. That bishop knows how to live.”

“That is an official title that he’s earned through dedicated service to the church and the Lord,” James grumbles. “It’s not a joke.”

“Sure, angel.” Immortal looks back at him and that familiar shark smile is back, obviously ready to begin the teasing for the day. “Calling some old dude _your Excellency_ is totally a serious thing that should not be laughed at, ever.”

“It’s _not_ ,” James says hotly and it doesn’t matter that he’s thought the same thing before because this is _his_ bishop, “It’s a _title_.”

“No shit.” Immortal’s face wrinkles up, tone mocking when he goes on, “seriously, babe, you shoulda heard that nun. She’s thirsting for that Holy D.”

“She’s a _nun_ , Immortal!” James yelps, “Oh, Lord above, no, don’t put that image in my head! They’ve taken _vows_ -,”

“Vows like yours?” Immortal wiggles his eyebrows. “What a _shame_ , is all I’m sayin’. You could have a lot more fun with us than with God.”

“I,” James presses a hand to his chest and ignores what he knows to be a hot flush on his cheeks, probably all the way down to his neck, “am a _deacon of the Catholic faith_. I’m fuckin’ _chaste_ , you asshole.”

“That’s so sad,” Immortal frowns at him, looking truly sorry. “We could show you a real good time, angel, just say the word.”

“The word is no,” James says firmly and Immortal sighs heavily but seems to accept it enough to flop back down into his couch and kick his legs up on the table.

“Fine, fine, no sex. You smoke?”

James just looks at him.

“Ugh.” Immortal rolls his eyes. “God, you priests and your rules. Can’t even get high.”

“We get high on the lord,” James deadpans. “Four-twenty, praise it, motherfucker.”

Hundar chokes in the kitchen and James whips his head around in time to see him setting down a mug with a clatter, coughing into a fist through a burst of laughter.

“Well, look at you with the jokes,” Immortal cackles, kind of high like a pot giggle, sounding genuinely amused. James shouldn’t feel proud about that, that he’s gotten this reaction from him, not at _all_.

He just shrugs, tries not to smile himself, and waits for them both to settle down again. Hundar has to take a second to clean up the spilled coffee but he’s bringing three mugs balanced precariously between two hands soon enough.

James gets up to help before he can talk himself out of it, taking hold of the middle cup before Hundar’s even made it all the way to the living room.

“Funny _and_ helpful,” Hundar says, tone just edging on thankful. “What a gentleman.”

“Priest,” James reminds him, quirking a little smile before he returns to the chair and sets his mug on the coffee table. Hundar does the same with the other two and Immortal leans forward and does a nice mix up so that all of the mugs are in the right place - Hundar’s is practically black but Immortal’s looks milky and James’ is somewhere in between.

“I thought you said Deacon,” Immortal snarks and James ignores him with a sniff.

“Ignore him. I didn’t know how you take it,” Hundar adds, almost apologetic, enough that James offers him another small smile.

“This is good,” he says, and takes a sip. It’s a little bitter, but he doesn’t particularly mind. Sometimes it’s nice to remember what coffee tastes like when it’s not filled with flavoring - even if it’s instant. “Thanks.”

“ _Polite_ , too.” Hundar shoots Immortal a glare, though it's more fondly exasperated than anything, and Immortal just slurps loudly at his coffee in response.

It goes quiet after that, just the three of them sipping at their mugs. James has been awake for the last three hours, but he has no other plans than this aside from the most unpleasant task he can possibly think of and he isn’t exactly going to try to rush them, so he finally leans back and drinks slowly to match Hundar’s pace.

Immortal turns the TV on a few minutes in, volume on low and set to local news, and it’s - it’s a routine. James has intruded on a morning routine, and one that they fall into seamlessly. Somehow Hundar has managed to get his feet in Immortal’s lap and Immortal has wrapped one hand around his ankle and is rubbing at the bump of bone with his thumb before James even notices the shift. Neither of them seem particularly bothered by his presence, but he still feels like an outsider interrupting.

To be fair, they’d interrupted _his_ routine by fucking murdering Frank and blackmailing him into heisting his place of employment and faith, so he doesn’t feel too bad. Just… a little.

It stays quiet for… nearly an hour, until all of their mugs are empty and on the coffee table. The news has ended and a rerun of Judge Judy is just starting; on the chopping block is an elderly man with a cane and no hair who’s daughter is accusing him of stealing her car’s tires for rent money.

“My brain is rotting,” Immortal says, transfixed.

“Mine too.” James clears his throat. “Can I tell you about what I found now?”

“Huh?” Immortal blinks a few times and then looks at him, possibly still mostly asleep. “Yeah. Sure, yeah, go ahead.”

Hundar swings his legs off his lap and collects their mugs while James clears his throat again and smoothes out his jeans. He wears regular clothes more often than he wears his cassock, really, but he feels weirdly dressed now, in front of these two men in particular in a pair of jeans and a shirt he found in the back of his closet.

They’ve both thrown on clothes, at least - both in flannels and tanks that put all of Immortal’s tattoos on display again, and the smaller ones Hundar has, too.

James… wants to get a closer look, and he can make out a shark and some sort of ocean motif before he looks away. The last thing he needs is Immortal noticing him staring and thinking it means he’s open to being flirted with right in front of Immortal’s _husband_. Or at all.

He really needs to talk to Hundar about the whole table thing. Once that guilt is off his chest, he’ll stop _thinking_ about it so much.

Part of him thinks it would help to go to confession. The rest of him reminds him that if he did that, the bishop would have him arrested, oath of confidentiality or no.

“Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” James says, but waits for Hundar to return with a bottle of water and a bowl of dry cereal before he continues. Immortal immediately takes a handful of what looks to be Lucky Charms cereal while Hundar just cracks the water open and takes a drink.

“Bad news,” he starts. “There was barely anything on the computer. His Excellency is a pretty old-fashioned guy.” James shrugs. “He doesn’t trust the banks, he doesn’t trust technology much. He barely likes to use phones.”

“What’s the good news, then?” Immortal pops a few more marshmallows into his mouth and steals Hundar’s water, who lets him take a swig before taking it back.

“There was a layout,” he says after a second. “You wanted that, right? Of the church?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hundar nods. “We did. Good job, kid. Let’s see it.”

“I need a USB port and a monitor.” James hesitates again. “I, uh. Made a slide show.”

“Oh my god,” Immortal says. “Oh, babe, please,”

“Keep it together.” Hundar shoves at him and James goes red again.

“If you don’t want it, “ he starts, tone hotter than it had been when he’d berated him about titles, but Immortal just grins at him, shakes his head.

“Oh, we want.”

Something tells James that he’s not talking about the map. He sighs loudly and looks to Hundar, who he suspects will be the only helper he’ll be getting out of the pair. “Monitor and USB port, please.”

“You can use the TV, port B.” Hundar motions to the television and James wrestles his way out of the armchair to find the assigned port and slip his drive into it. It takes a moment but then the screen flickers and, within a few seconds and the use of a wireless mouse and keyboard, he’s opening the drive up and typing in the password.

“Why…” Hundar starts, but Immortal answers for him.

“He’s scared we’re gonna shoot him now that he’s got us some info.”

“...valid point. That’s valid,” Hundar says, and James scoffs from where he’s navigating a mouse that isn’t responding very well.

Finally, he manages to get PowerPoint open and sets it up to the title screen. This was how he used to do it when he was working on jobs for people; simple slideshows, shit he could send out to everyone and they could follow along if they needed to, and wouldn’t ask him stupid questions that he couldn’t just send a quick slide number in response to.

“Wow,” Immortal says. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding. An actual slideshow.”

“If you don’t want it, then you can shut your eyes,” James says sharply. “Stop interrupting.”

“Oh, our angel is all smitey today,” Immortal teases again. “Okay, I’ll stop laughing at your hard work. Go on, give us a show. Did you prepare a speech? I think you get points off if you forgot your notecards.”

“Fuck you,” James says. “I’m only talking to Hundar until you decide to stop making fun of how I’m giving you the information you _asked for_.”

“Oh, angel, don’t be like that.” Immortal pouts at him, near simpering, but James ignores him.

“This is a 3D model of the main building,” he says, directed pointedly to Hundar, and clicks the mouse so that the slide changes over. It is, indeed, an overhead view of the church as if the roof had been removed and the color and texture stripped of all but its most basic shapes.

There’s the cathedral, the offshoot storage closet just out of sight of the pews and then the back room, where they keep pre-prepped gear and the basin for infant baptisms. Connected to that square is the hallway of Sunday School classrooms and offices. There are four classrooms, ranging from infant care all the way up to eight year olds, and then children any older than that can join their parents in Mass or go to the smaller chapel just next door for appropriately themed lessons that are a little more complex than the younger classes get. Frank had had his own office, and there’s the bishop’s, and then a final room where they house the packaged goods that are used to make food bags for less fortunate children in the area.

Everything is labeled, color-coded for ease of understanding, and James had… maybe spent more time on this than he should have if he’d just been doing it for the sake of ease. But he can admit, at least, that a part of him had missed being able to play around in a program - even one as simple as PowerPoint and a 3D model builder.

“Next,” He clicks again and the chapel next door comes to the screen, both a frontal picture of the small building and another 3D model. “This is the chapel, the original building before the bigger one was funded. It’s where we send older kids who won’t sit still during services.”

“Behave or you get sent to the Naughty Chapel,” Immortal intones and Hundar snorts but James is refusing to acknowledge him until he can be an adult.

James will probably never acknowledge him again at this point.

“The last building,” he says as he clicks to the next slide, which shows a picture of the convent, and then clicks again to show the 3D model for it, “is the convent, where the Sisters live. They care for the church and the grounds, just your run-of-the-mill nuns. These are the bedrooms, the kitchens, the shared living spaces, and then these are the Reverend Mother’s quarters.” He clicks as he speaks, and each room’s title appears as he says them.

“Damn,” Hundar says, sounding impressed. “You really came through, James. I figured we’d get some grainy pictures on your phone or something.”

James feels the back of his neck flush. He… he could have done that. Shit, he could have easily done that. _Shit_ , he could so fucking easily have just snapped a few pictures and given them a verbal lay out and been done with the whole thing.

All at once, James realizes that he’s slipped into his old habits. Habits he’s long tried to break. He’s treated this blackmail-fueled mission like a _job_ , and he’d done all the appropriate research and compilation that had been required of him those years ago.

Instead of just the bare minimum, which is what a man not good enough to die for the cause but not bad enough to actively be more helpful than he needs to be would have done, he’d -

He’s suddenly not sure if he wants to keep going. He’s got profiles, and a pretty detailed timetable of the day and life of those most commonly seen around his usual areas, and some information on the Sisters’ habits through discretely following Sister Mary Ann for a few hours two days ago.

“He was probably an ace in school,” Immortal laughs again. “Fuckin’ PowerPoints and going the extra mile. Go on, angelcakes, I know you still have a few slides left. Don’t freeze up on us now.”

James hesitates, looking down at where his fingers are pressed lightly into the pads of the mouse.

“Promise me no one is going to get hurt,” he decides.

Immortal sighs and, when James manages to work up the nerve to look at them, looks vaguely bemused.

“You’re not exactly in any position to negotiate terms, angel. You’ve already brought the information to us.”

“Look.” James swallows and decides that this is… this is where he’s going to put his foot down. He’d decided five years ago that he was going to have some damn morals from that point on but he hasn’t ever been tested on that. Not until now, and he’s been failing that ambition a _lot_ in the last couple weeks. So he takes a deep breath and looks at them as firmly as he can.

“Look, the money is one thing. Take the money, I don’t care, these people are loaded and, shit, the church’ll probably make double what they do in the fundraiser just from community support. I don’t care about the fucking money. But - but the people, they’re good people. Frank was an asshole, and he obviously got himself into some heat that he shouldn’t have - but the bishop is good. He’s a good man. And the Sisters are just fuckin’ women who wanted to devote themselves to something and do some good, and the congregates are just coming to fuckin’ praise God or fulfill some sort of inner peace or something, but they aren’t _bad people_ for that. So _promise me_ that you aren’t going to hurt anyone else.”

He takes his hand off the mouse, wipes his palms on his jeans and wishes he’d worn something with shorter sleeves, because it’s suddenly so hot in the apartment that he can _feel_ the sweat beading at his temples. Hundar’s looking contemplative, but James knows that Immortal’s the one he has to convince here. Hundar will go with whatever he decides, and James knows he’s walking a thin line of amusing Immortal enough to not piss him off and, well, actually pissing him off.

But Immortal just keeps that same vaguely interest look, like James is telling him they get more converts in December. “You situation hasn’t changed at all, you know that right? We still know where you live and what you love. You don’t get to make demands here, angelcakes.”

“It’s-” James thinks back to that time in his kitchen, when Immortal had tilted his head back so he could make his point. “I’m… asking. Begging, whatever. Please. Don’t hurt anyone else.”

Something dark flashes over Immortal’s face for a split second, hungry, but it’s gone so fast that James would think he’d imagined it if he hadn’t already gotten a decent grasp of Immortal’s personality.

“Oh, you learn fast.” Immortal leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and looks James over, that vague look splitting into a big, sharp smile. “Already using those pretty eyes on us, huh?”

James glances over to Hundar for just a second, who looks interested but only insofar that he is sitting right in front of what’s happening. He doesn’t know what Immortal expects him to say to that, so he just keeps his lips tightly pressed together and clutches the material of his jeans until, with one last once-over, Immortal nods.

“Yeah, okay. We can promise that. No one gets hurt unless they try to stop us. But you’re gonna help us figure out how to get in and out without that happening, aren’t you, angel?”

“I’m gonna try my best,” James agrees, relief welling up in him so abruptly that he has to take a second to get it back under control. It isn’t that he _cares_ on a personal level about the sisters or even the bishop all that much. But Frank had been the only one to actually treat him badly and Sister Mary Ann is a bitch, but none of that is a reason to get _shot_ to death, as far as James is concerned.

Carefully, he reaches out and presses the tips of his fingers to the top of Immortal’s hand, swallowing hard before he says, “Thank you.”

Immortal just hums, but it’s higher than his usual voice and James sees that same dark hunger in his eyes before he looks away.

“Now,” James clears his throat again. “The clergy. This might take a little while. There’s about twenty-five of us, including the Sisters and a few volunteers that come regularly enough that I added them in.”

Immortal flops back down, leans into Hundar’s side, and groans. “I _hate_ planning heists,” he says to either the both of them or to the universe in general. “Okay, angelcakes, go the fuck on. Teach us the people of your homeland or whatever.”

James lets that go, because Immortal had made him a promise and had sounded genuine enough about it, and clicks over to the next slide, with a picture of the bishop.

“George Carmichael,” he starts, “has been with with area for nearly forty years. He travels every week or so, going to visit his other churches. With Frank gone, he’s stationed with us for awhile, until another priest can be brought in. Honestly, I think he just wants to ask me to take the position when I take my vows, so I doubt we’ll see anyone new.”

And on he went, going from person to person and giving what relevant information he had been able to dig up. There isn’t much; it’s a well-to-do church in the middle of LA, the members of the clergy aren’t exactly hardened criminals. A few of the nuns are burly, but he doubts Hundar couldn’t take them on if, for some reason, it comes down to him versus the convent. Most of them are older, only a few young faces in the mix - his included - and most of them have been with the church for at least a decade.

His last slide is just a set of the pictures he’d taken from the balance book - the blank check he’d lifted account numbers off of and the balance sheets of last January, February, and March.

“And that’s it,” he says, throat parched from all the talking. “Everything I’ve got, and probably can get.”

“Nothing on the truck they get the money in, though?” Immortal asks, actually looking serious, “Nothin’? Not even the type?”

“Nothing on the computer.” James shakes his head. “From what I remember of last spring, it was, like, one of those bank buses? With the thick walls and the armor and enforced wheels, you know? But that’s it.”

“Well, if it gets into that thing, then we’re fucked,” Hundar tosses his arms across the back of the couch, leaning back with a tilt of his head to think. “Our best chance is to find where he stashes it. So, what, he cashes the checks and then brings the money back to put somewhere on the grounds, right?”

“He was born in a time where, you know, the banks weren’t exactly trusted and he’s never really had reason to change the old practices. He doesn’t put the money in until he’s gotta, just in case. I think he’d still be trying to pay everything in cash if the world hadn’t evolved around him. Stuff the rest under his mattress.”

“Then we’ve got a pretty simple plan, don’t we?” Immortal frowns at the screen. “Next time you collect donations, just follow him when he’s going to put them-”

“Are you crazy?” James interrupts, and nearly backpedals when Immortal turns that frown on him, annoyed. But he keeps going, because; “you said I’d just - I’d just be gathering information. I did that, I have it all, right there.” He points at the screen. “But if the bishop catches me trying to sniff out where his money goes and then it goes _missing_ in a couple months - you said I just had to get you -”

“But, see, we just made a new deal, didn’t we?” Immortal leans forward again, “Remember, angel? You just asked us to keep people from getting hurt. That puts us at a disadvantage, me and ol’ Hundar, here, don’t it? Can’t take hostages, can’t blackmail, can’t go in with guns blazin’ and just take what we want.”

“I,” James stops before he can even start because he knows Immortal has trapped him. Probably from the moment James had asked, Immortal had known he was going to pull something like this.

“Exactly.” Immortal nods when he sees the understanding, “So, we got ourselves a new deal. You’ve added _parameters_ , and that means that your involvement needs to be a little bit more helpful. Seems fair, right, babe?”

He looks at Hundar and Hundar looks at James for a second before nodding. “Yeah, I’d say. You just have to follow him around, kid. If you get caught, make up a reason. Say you’re worried we’ll come back for the old guy this time.”

James wants to argue, but he can't think of one. A new deal hadn't been what he'd expected.

“Unless, of course,” Immortal taps his fingers against his knee, “You don't want to make a new deal. I'm generous, angel. If you really don't wanna follow him around, we can always stick with the original agreement.”

“And people getting hurt might be on the agenda.”

“Well,” Immortal shrugs, “we gotta do business somehow.”

James looks at his hands, flattens them out on his thighs and presses down while he thinks.

“If,” he starts, sounding his thoughts out. “If I find out where he’s keeping the money, that’s it, right? Nothing else? No tricks?”

“Cross my heart.” Immortal drags his finger in an X shape over his heart.

“I want one more thing,” he decides, “and I’ll find out where he’s keeping it for you.”

“ _Another_ demand?” Hundar blinks at him, narrows his eyes. “Kid.”

“All I asked is that you don’t hurt anyone!” James says defensively. “And now you want me to put myself in danger even though all I’m asking is that you come up with a plan that doesn’t involve _more murder_. So I think it’s a little fucking fair, okay?”

“Okay, girls, calm down.” Immortal puts both hands up placatingly. “Let’s hear him out, babe. What is it that you want?”

“I…” James stops, tries to figure out which way he wants to go. Does he ask for a favor? Something he can decide later? Would they go for that? Or maybe he should ask that they give him their real names, just in case they screw him over? He just wants more information. Something to work off of. He wants to know who he’s indirectly working for and if this could somehow come back to haunt him down the line, when he’s put this life behind him for good.

“I just wanna know why you’re doing this,” he finally decides. It’s a risk; if they don’t give him anything useful than he’s just wasted his chance at hunting down the information he wants. But if they’re honest with him, or at least let the right true thing slip, he can work with that. He just needs more to work with.

“That’s it?” Immortal raises a dark eyebrow. “You want, what, a villainous monologue?”

“We’re robbing a church, dude,” James says flatly. “There are some things that even criminals turn their noses up to and this tends to be one of them. It must be _important_ , and I just want to know if this is going to come back and fuck me later. I mean, Frank owed you a lot of money but - but you killed him, and you didn’t know about me, so obviously his debt had been, like, traded for his life or whatever, right?”

“Ah,” Hundar cuts Immortal off before he can answer. “That’s the deal? We don’t hurt anyone else, and we give you some sob story, and you find us the vault of cash and don’t make any more noise about how dangerous following an old man around a church is?”

“Yes, yeah,” James agrees. “That’s… that’s the deal.”

Immortal offers a hand and, not letting himself hesitate, James takes it and shakes.

“Great, you find the vault and we’ll reveal our noble intentions.” Immortal doesn’t immediately let his hand go, glancing down and then the smug look on his face melts away.

“Holy shit, dude, do you have _tattoos_?”

James snatches his hand back, pulling the cuff of his sleeve down over his exposed wrist. “ _No_.”

“Dude.” Immortal nearly starts _vibrating_. “Dude, show me.”

“I’m a clergyman of the Catholic faith,” James says with as much aplomb as he can, “I don’t have tattoos.”

“You’re a fuckin’ _liar_ is what you are,” Immortal says gleefully. “Come on, dude, show me,”

“Is this appropriate?” He asks helplessly, looking between them, but the delight on Immortal’s face isn't like his usual teasing or threatening looks and even Hundar's starting to look curious.

“Not even a little,” Hundar says, “but still.”

“I thought priests aren't allowed to get tattoos?”

“It's… frowned upon, unless _maybe_ if they're religiously themed,” James hedges “And _were_ I to have them, they would have been from when I was a kid and didn't know I'd be going into the priesthood. And I only would have kept getting them worked on because they looked stupid just lined.”

“Okay,” Immortal nods, schooling his features to something less bright. “If you _were_ to have them, what would they look like?”

“...zombies.” James finally admits around a sigh, “they would be half sleeve of zombies and shit. And, like, maybe… demons or whatever on a full sleeve.”

“Oh,” Immortal grins, losing the fight to repress his enthusiasm. “That’s not priestly at _all_.”

James flushes and tugs at his sleeve again. “ _If_ I were to have them, they would have been from a long time ago, so.”

“What do I have to do to see those sleeves, dude,” Immortal demands, “for real.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” James rubs his forehead, but the tight ball in his chest is unraveling as the subject’s changed and he’s able to edge away from that fine line before pushing too far past what they were willing to put up with. Fuck, if Immortal wants to argue about seeing his tattoos instead of continuing to plan a church robbery, he’d play cat and mouse all day. And, after the last couple fucking days, it’s kind of fun to have something that someone else wants instead of the other way around, even something as simple as his sleeves.

“No, probably not.”

“Then I guess,” James finds himself smiling, “you’ll have to figure out a way to convince me.”

Immortal’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open, and it takes Hundar nudging him with a roll of his eyes for Immortal to close his mouth and clear his throat, looking even more thrilled that James is playing along than before.

“You don't know what you're starting, angelcakes. I don't give up easy.”

“He really doesn't,” Hundar confirms, a bit doleful, even as he tries to keep the smile off his face.

“We’ll see.” James shrugs and stands. “If that's all, I have shit I gotta get done.”

“What does a deacon do on his day off?” Immortal raises an eyebrow and James remembers the monumental task waiting for him at home.

“Eulogy writing,” he frowns. “For Frank. So thanks for that, I'm looking forward to talking about how great the guy who broke my knuckle was.”

“He _what_?” Hundar says with a look of something not quite so strong as _horror_ , but like a younger sibling to it.

“Did you think I was lying when I told you he caned my hands?” James gives him a slightly defensive shrug that’s more in his eyes than his shoulders, “The bruises are gone now mostly, but, well. If there _were_ tattoos, you wouldn't be the first to notice. And I really am not great at Latin.”

Immortal doesn't look so amused anymore, more thoughtful. “Why'd you stay and put up with that bullshit? I don't know much about the church but I'm _pretty_ sure that ain't allowed.”

“Battle of wills,” James goes to the TV to pop the drive out, “I worked long and hard for this goddamn spot and I'm wasn't gonna let the _good Sister_ or Frank run me out. I guess I just have to put up with the Sister now.”

“Sounds like we did you a favor,” Immortal hums and James scoffs at him as he caps the drive.

“If you're looking for a thank you for murdering a priest in my church, you're not getting one.” He turns around and holds out the drive for him to take. “I could have handled _Frank_ for a couple more months.”

“You have no idea who he really was,” Hundar snorts. “You wouldn't be saying that if you did.”

“Trust me.” James shoved his hands in his pockets once Immortal plucks the drive from his fingers, “Despite the situation I've found myself in, I'm not helpless.”

Hundar looks… curious. Almost as curious as Immortal had been about his tattoos but NOVA isn't a tidbit of information he’ll be sharing with anyone. Let alone some loan sharks from Cali looking for an in to the bigger market. He has his suspicions about who Frank owed and who these two work for and he's being stupid even as he's being coy.

Too many hints and they might get _too_ curious.

But in the end all Hundar does is shrug, and Immortal stands up.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says and James follows him to the door with one last glance at Hundar. He feels the eyes on him all the way to where the hallway cuts off his vision.

“We’ll come to yours next week.” Immortal tells him at the door, while he is shoving his shoes back on. “Try to have the location by then.”

“No promises but… I'll try.” James grimaces. “You guys don't get it, but he’s not stationary. I’m pretty sure he’ll only be at the church for Mass because his other churches are… well, no one is taking Frank’s death well. It might not be so easy as following an old man, especially before it even starts.”

“Try your best,” Immortal says blandly and James finds himself rolling his eyes before he can think better of it. It makes Immortal grin again, dangerous still but not really _threatening_.

“I will,” James says, and kind of means it. He’ll fulfill his side of the bargain, but he isn't going to be stupid about it for the sake of speed. They have three months after the end of December and Christmas is approaching rapidly and Advent is not the time for anything outside of the church. His next week is filled with service work, and then counseling and the minutiae of clerical employments. But he’ll try.

He's halfway down the walk, planning out where he wants to head to before he calls an Uber, when Immortal calls after him.

“I'll find a way to see those zombies, angel!”

“No, you won’t!” he calls back without looking, strolling toward the entrance to the complex. He saw a McDonalds maybe a mile out and that will work.

He hears Immortal laugh even as the door shuts, and realizes he has a little smile on his face, too.

He drops it, hunches his shoulders, walks faster.


	3. If you were church, I'd get on my knees (part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chap 3 here we go!!!! there is one more chap of this part and then there will probably be a small break while i try to finish part 2 (followed by a much longer break while i start and finish part 3 whoops im so sorry). thanks for sticking with me thru this terrible update schedule <3 i thought id try the bi-weekly thing out but idk if im really into it bc i FORGET AH but anyway!!!
> 
> thank u to all of my friends once again, i couldnt do half of what i do without any of us. thank u especially to cibmata who edited for me again <3 <3 
> 
> i hope you all have a great new year!!! i started mine out better than usual so i want to pass the vibes on to u. thanks for such an amazing year, youve all been super supportive and kind and i love all of u!!!!

For the next six days, James is just as busy as he thought he’d be. 

He’s overrun with packing food baskets, helping coordinate the children’s celebrations in the chapel come Christmas Eve and then Christmas Day. Not to mention preparing the eulogy he’s to give the following Sunday for Father Frank. 

The bishop had been insistent that he should be the one to give it, that it would help his grieving. So he’ll be speaking to the congregation before Christmas Eve Mass. He’s still struggling with what he’s going to say. He knows what he _should_ say, but the thought of preaching the Father’s good deeds when Hundar's _you have no idea who he really was_ still echoes in his head make the words taste sour on his tongue.

He hopes that no one speaks about how great _he_ was at his funeral, if this is how it will make them feel.

Wednesday’s Mass runs late, mid-week congregates staying to pay respects to the framed photo of Frank that has been placed in an alcove close to the altar and Advent Wreath. The funeral had been the week of his death, and James can only be relieved that the bishop had thought he was too distressed to go. Once this eulogy is out of the way, James hopes to wash his hands of this whole fuckin’ situation and be done with it. He doesn't want to know who Frank really was or what he owed or to who. Just that he wouldn't be involved once these two got their money.

He's still thinking of that, of being free of the frankly much more distressing robbing of his church, as he unlocks his door that night. 

He’s expecting Ein’s excited barking to greet him; her usual routine on Wednesdays being that he takes her out for a good hour to make up for being locked up all day. But she doesn't come flying to his feet immediately. With a sense of foreboding, he looks up from where his dog is _not_ and finds where she _is_ , which is enthusiastically receiving a belly rub from Hundar. 

“I'm home,” he says, going for a joke but coming off more tired than anything. He’s exhausted, to be honest; he’s only slept around five hours in the last two days, between trying to organize the Christmas food drive and picking up the slack of paperwork without an ordained priest around. Somehow, being menaced by his criminal cohorts seems like a good topper after the week he's had.

“Hi, sweetheart, how was work?” Hundar plays along anyway, looking totally at ease with his invasion of James’ home. He’s taken his boots off, at least, feet up on the IKEA table he’d used as a seat last time he’d been here. Ein's made herself comfortable in his lap, a hand so big it covers her entire belly buried in her fur and scratching as she happily wriggles around. 

“Exhausting. And I still haven't found it.” He cuts to the chase. “He hasn't been around at all except for Mass and confession hours.”

“Immortal mentioned right now might be hard,” Hundar admits. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“That I fuckin’ hate Christmas?” He can't help but grump, reaching up to rub at his tired eyes. They sting from it, still feel dry and achy.

“Where’s your spirit, kid?” Hundar smiles a teeth-flashing grin. “No caroling from the good deacon? You don't even have a tree.”

“You lug a tree up two flights of stairs.” James wrinkles up his nose. He's too tired to be scared, so he toes off his dress shoes and sits on the other end of the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. It's such a relief that he could cry, being able to relax into his own couch and breathe. He doesn't go in until nearly noon tomorrow, where he’s to help the Sisters finish up decorating the classrooms for the Christmas Masses and then head out to relieve the priest that had come from their closest neighboring church to run the food drive for the morning shift. 

“Maybe I will,” Hundar says ominously, like a threat, and the image of he and Immortal holding a tree up between them with their guns drawn is enough to bring the first real smile to his face since he'd been with Ein yesterday. 

“Apparently you guys don't need me to let you in, so…” He trails off, tugging at the neckline of his cassock. It's hot outside, even in December, and it’s cooler in the studio but that’s just made the sweat in his clothes go cold and uncomfortable, stiff around his neck and wrists and shoulders. He’d slept in the damn thing last night just so he could have that extra twenty minutes of getting dressed to sleep, instead.

“We’ve got nothing better to do than bother you. And if Immortal gets to see your fuckin’ dog, he’ll stop pestering me about getting one.” 

“Just don't let him steal her or shoot her or, I dunno, eat her in his peacocking.”

“ _Peacocking_ ,” Hundar cackles. “I'm gonna tell him you said that.”

“Please wait until I've slept,” James pleads, “I can't handle the teasing until I sleep.”

“You do look like shit warmed over,” Hundar says. “This whole Christmas thing comes for your life, huh?” 

“It’s not… all bad. And would be much easier if we had a _permanent_ _priest_.” He blinks one eye open to give him an accusing look, which he hopes conveys his annoyance. Hundar doesn’t look sympathetic. “But it’s mostly just lots’a prep, lot more Masses for the congregates. Longer hours for the Sacraments that I can't perform but _can_ play secretary for.”

“Sounds rough, buddy,” Hundar says, and James opens both eyes to show him how severely unimpressed he is with that reference.

“You're too old for this.”

“Tell that to my husband,” Hundar says, just enough exhausted fondness in the undertone of his words to make James bite back another smile.

“Yeah, well, why don't you go _home_ to your husband so I can fuckin’ sleep. I'll text you when I find where he hides everything, but it really probably won't be until after the first. Don't you have other Innocents to intimidate?”

“Yeah,” Hundar admits, “But you're our favorite.”

James groans, rubbing his face again, more exaggerated than before.

“I’m truly blessed. Good night, Hundar.”

Hundar snorts, plops Ein in his lap. “I took her out and fed her again. I should start charging you interest for dog sitting.” 

“Good _night_ , Hundar.”

“You know he's gonna drop by again. You started playing along and that wasn't very smart if you wanted him to leave you alone.”

James stops, feels his stomach clench up. “I don’t - I didn’t mean - I, uh, look, I know he’s just joking around. I wouldn’t - I’m not actually -”

Hundar watches him with a raised eyebrow, amusement plain in his eyes, if not on his face.

“Did he tell you about - I mean, I don’t think he was serious but -” James finally clears his throat, continues talking in a small voice because if there’s a time to bring it up, then it’s now, “I mean, I didn’t mean to - encourage or, or you know, welcome any advances, or -”

“Kid,” Hundar finally puts him out of his misery, lips twisting into a smile. “Relax. Immortal’s a flirt, always has been and always will be. But don’t worry, I’m not gonna start a cat fight with you over him.”

James gives him a quick assessing look, trying to make sure he’s serious. Immortal is his husband - and he’s been flirting pretty fuckin’ heavily with James from the actual moment they’d found him in the first place. And then there’d been the whole _thing_ under the bishop’s table and - and, Jesus, Hundar has really big arms and James knows he knows how to use them.

“Besides,” Hundar smirks, “he’s not trying to get you into _his_ bed. He’s trying to get you into _our’s_. There’s not much we don’t share, sweetheart.”

James short circuits for a second. 

It’s one thing to hear Immortal imply it when he’s being an asshole and trying to fluster James. It’s a completely different thing to hear Hundar, who’s stoic and kind of intense even half asleep in his underwear, confirm it. He presses his face back into his hands, feels his entire body going red-hot with a flush he’s sure reaches from toes to nose.

“Please go home. Let me die in peace.”

“We ain’t the peaceful types, deacon.” Hundar pats his shoulder. “I’ll lock your door. He did steal a press of your key, so.”

“I literally hate you both,” James says with as much feeling as he can, voice muffled in his palms.

“Good night, James,” Hundar laughs at him, and then he quietly puts his boots on and leaves. James hears his door lock.

He flops over on the couch, wiggles roughly out of his cassock and flings it onto the coffee table so he can spread out limply. Usually, this couch is the most uncomfortable thing he's ever had the misfortune of owning but right now he can't even think of walking the millions of yards between he and his bed.

He buries his face in the pillow, breathes deep and catches hints of something spicy and striking and almost distinctly Hundar. 

He falls asleep before he can think on his body’s response to that.

-

The next night, just as Hundar promised, Immortal is stretched out on his couch, playing a game on a PlayStation James definitely doesn't own.

“Still don't have it.” He says when he’s closed and locked his door. “Won't until after New Year.”

“Yeah.” Immortal doesn't look at him. “My boy’s doin’ a deal at home but the guy doesn't like me much. I'm chillin’ here 'til it’s done.”

“No, please, make yourself at home,” James sighs, exhausted despite the near ten hours of sleep he’d got last night.

“I _could_ leave,” Immortal offers, looks at him slyly from the corner of his eyes. “But it’ll cost you.”

“What doesn't cost me with you two?” James asks, taking his shoes off more carefully than he had yesterday. He’ll have to polish them if they scuff and he _hates_ polishing. “You're like those ugly little gremlin things in Harry Potter.”

“Those are goblins,” Immortal corrects. “Besides, it’s nothing you can't give me. Just take off that pretty robe and show me the sleeves.”

“You’ll have to do better than offering to leave when you've already told me you're going to be leaving soon.” James smirks at him when he frowns, and continues to the kitchen. Ein’s food has been topped off and she isn't running in circles yelping so he can safely assume Immortal has done him a solid and taken her out. 

Instead, she's chewing on a milkbone he didn't buy for her, aggressively gnawing at it with her back legs splayed out behind her like she's Superman. 

“You are going to spoil my dog,” he says softly, listening to the quiet sounds of what he’s pretty sure is Halo while he gets some water.

“I’d be giving _you_ something to put in your mouth if you'd let me,” Immortal leers, but it's distracted and he cuts back to the screen with a curse almost immediately. James just leans against the counter and drinks his water and tries to figure out what the actual fuck is going on.

“You play?” Immortal asks after the silence has stretched for a few minutes and James takes a second to ponder his answer.

“Not in a while,” he finally says, weighing each word for any way they can be used against him. 

“I've got an extra controller and a two-person mission I need to complete. Come play.”

“I wouldn't be much help,” he demurs. The idea of sitting on the couch with Immortal like he had with Hundar yesterday is making his heart speed up a tick or two. 

“Come on, angel,” Immortal whines, “Hundar won't play with me anymore and I need the achievement.”

James still isn't impressed and it’s with a great sigh that Immortal settles back down. He pops back up just a second later, that sly look from before firmly back in place.

“Play with me,” he weedles, “and I'll buy you dinner.”

“Dinner,” James repeats blandly.

“Whatever you want,” Immortal near sing-songs, a melodic sort of lilt to his voice that actually makes James consider it. 

He’s lucky that this assignment is a paid one, though it’s only because it’s a full-time job that includes cleaning and caring for the church outside of his duties as a deacon, but it isn't a very _well_ -paid one. He can afford this studio and his bills and food for Ein and the left over is enough to feed himself if he does it carefully, but that is about it.

“... _whatever_ I want?” 

“Whatever you want.” Immortal wiggles the controller at him. “No limits. If it doesn't deliver, I’ll have Hundar pick it up for us when he’s done.” 

James looks at him and the controller and then to his food pantry. He has plenty, really. Enough noodles to last him forty years, soup cans and pancake mix, eggs and milk and butter. He doesn't need to be _bought_.

But it's been a long time since he could afford to eat out or order in. 

“There's _one_ place,” he admits. “But I’m warning you, it’s expensive.”

Immortal grins, slow and satisfied, holds out the controller. 

James takes another sip of water, leaves Ein to chew on her milkbone and walks over to take it from him. He really hasn’t played in awhile - he’d sold all his gaming stuff when he’d graduated college, wanted to really dedicate himself to seminary and learning all that he needed to know, and he’d felt kinda bad about how he’d been able to afford all that shit in the first place. It’s not like he’s not touched a video game in five years, but he’s not regularly playing, either. Just, like, phone games, but that’s about it. 

“Trust me, angelcakes.” Immortal pulls his legs up and twists around until he’s not taking up the whole couch anymore, until he’s left enough room for James to gingerly sit on his own sofa. “I can afford whatever you want.”

“Grilled shrimp,” he says firmly, wrapping both hands around the controller’s handles. “From Outback.”

Immortal nods, typing into his phone like he’s taking notes. He waits a second and then looks up from the screen expectantly. “And?”

“And?” James says. “That’s it.”

“Dude,” Immortal scoffs. “For real. I promised you _dinner_. What else do you want?”

“Just the shrimp is good.” James shrugs. “It’s good shrimp.”

“Angel, you’re eating canned beans and rice. You have the pantry of a family of four in the Great Depression.”

“Hey!” James frowns at him. “I _like_ beans and rice, fucker.”

“Yeah, okay,” Immortal sniffs, looking half amused and half bewildered. “But I bet you’ll _also_ like fuckin’ - steak or lobster or some shit. Come on, dude, I’m payin’ here. Live a little.”

“Fuck, dude.” James frowns again. “I dunno, I haven’t eaten there in a long time. Whatever you get? Just get two.”

“Just get two, he says,” Immortal shakes his head. “Okay, you like lobster? Or steak? Or are you a vegetarian or some shit? Paleoanthropist or whatever.”

“What the fuck is a Paleoanthropist, Immortal?”

“You know, like - you don’t eat meat, but fish is cool.”

“I think you’re getting a pescetarian and someone on the paleo diet confused. Also throwing like… science people bullshit in there.”

“Listen, asshole, I’m about to drop a lot of money because apparently you don’t even know if you like lobster or steak more so I’ll call it whatever the fuck I want.”

“I like…” James stops, tries to decide. “I dunno. Steak is good.”

“Steak is _good_ ,” Immortal echoes, like James has disappointed him. “Okay, steak it is. How do you like it?”

“This is a lot. I changed my mind, let’s just get pizza.”

“Oh, no,” Immortal says and James sighs and settles in to get grilled on his dietary preferences for the next forever. 

By the end, Immortal has pulled up the Outback Steakhouse menu and made James go through it with him, debating and discussing each option until they’ve racked up a hefty list of what Immortal says he and Hundar usually get and what he wants James to at least try. 

“That’s...a lot fuckin’ food, dude.” James wrinkles up his nose. “I’m only playing like, a few games with you, I have to get up early. Pizza is fine.”

“We’ll play again later,” Immortal dismisses. “When all this Advent bullshit is done.” 

“You mean after Christmas.” James finds himself smiling at how completely uninterested Immortal seems in the whole mess, not even the fake cheer Hundar had put on.

Immortal opens his mouth to say something but stops when he looks up from his phone to meet his eye. There’s a weird second where the silence between waits to be filled and isn’t, and then Immortal is back.

“Too many words for a single fuckin’ day, that’s what I think. All the trees and candles and shit.” Immortal rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I already sent the list to the hottest delivery boy we’re ever gonna meet so shut it and ready up, bitch.”

James heaves a great sigh, picks his controller back up and turns to the screen. “You’ve just made the worst deal of your life, buddy.”

“Dropping a couple hundred for good food and two cute guys to play video games with me is definitely not the worst deal I’ve ever made, angel.” Immortal cackles and, while James is still red and spluttering, kills him on screen.

“Cheating!” he yelps, and goes after Immortal’s avatar as soon as he respawns. “That’s so fuckin’ cheating, you asshole.”

“There’s no cheating in love and war,” Immortal declares and kills him again, only to start squawking like a damned bird when James respawns again and gets him back three times in a row.

It’s kind of like riding a bike, though the mechanics are kinda different and it takes him a few tries to get back into the swing of it. At one point, Immortal slaps the controller out of his hand so he doesn’t score the winning point so James ‘accidentally’ spills his water on Immortal’s stupid skinny jeans at a pivotal moment. Immortal’s voice has started cracking more often than not and James has actually started snapping back, both fun and frustration heating his blood, by the time the door clicks open and Hundar walks in with two big brown paper bags with the Outback Steakhouse branding displayed prominently. 

“Jesus, you’re actually playing with him? He’s a fuckin’ asshole to play with, what are you even doing,” Hundar says without even really stopping. He pushes the door closed with a boot and goes to the table to drop the bags. “You didn’t even let him get changed, dude.”

“He pulls the look off.” Immortal shrugs and James glares at them both because this is a punishment of some sort and he knows he deserves it after the life he’s lived but he doesn’t have to like it.

“I wouldn’t blame him if he stabbed you right now after sitting through any amount of gameplay with you.” Hundar shakes his head, starting to unload the bags. “You can go change out of that, kid. I’ll distract him long enough for you to sneak into the bathroom if you hurry.”

“Hardy _-har_ , motherfuckers.” Immortal casts a wide glare to the general room, but there’s something soft and pleased in the lines of his face when he looks at Hundar that makes James put the controller down and stand up quickly.

“That, uh, that sounds like a good idea,” he says and, while Immortal is distracted with the food, grabs his pajama pants and a long sleeved tee from a drawer. Usually, he’d go for a tank or go without but Immortal doesn’t deserve to get _everything_ he wants tonight. 

He changes slowly, looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes aren’t as tired as they usually look, but his hair is kind of messy from the day and then the hour of roughhousing on the couch. He washes his face, still feels the dried sweat of being outside and the broken AC in the back offices, and dries his skin with one of his hand towels, takes a second to think about what’s happening.

He’s got the two men who murdered his mentor - dickhole that he was, but still - and they’ve just bought an expensive as hell dinner. He’s supposed to go out there, eat it and listen to them joke around. Probably fight off yet more flirtations from Immortal, play a few more rounds, maybe. Then he’s supposed to sleep soundly, get up, and go back to his church tomorrow to continue prep for the coming service. 

His half-written eulogy to Frank is on his bedside table, yards from where he’s practically opened his home to his murderers.

But he remembers sitting on the couch, facing each other with Immortal’s phone out so they could go through the Outback menu, remembers the milkbone and that Hundar has taken his dog out for a walk at least three times and fed her, that he brought them dinner and didn’t seem even kind of annoyed about it. That Frank had caned his hands so hard that James had spent three days unable to bend his pointer properly until he’d finally gone to the hospital to have it examined and found it _broken_ , had never really been anything but condescending and _mean_ from the moment James had arrived to the moment he’d died. The only good thing he’d ever done for James was not mention he was hiding in the confessional and even then James was sure it was only because he’d been too scared to remember. 

He’s still fixing his hair when he walks out of the bathroom to find the food has been laid out on the coffee table in almost a buffet style. They’ve found the set of mismatched plates he keeps in his cabinets, plus some utensils. Apparently Hundar had stopped to pick up drinks because there’s a six-pack of beer on the floor by the couch and another six-pack of cola next to it. 

Immortal and Hundar are talking in the kitchen area, just loud enough for James to make out Hundar’s “...told him to fuck off if he wanted me to reduce prices even more,” while Immortal nods with a set to his lips that says he’s kind of annoyed. 

“Yeah, we’ll find a new buyer,” he agrees. “I’m not fuckin’ with school zones, not even for his kinda cash.”

“That’s what I said.” Hundar nods and James stops and watches them, not sure if he wants to hear more. They’re probably talking about the deal that had brought Immortal to his home tonight in the first place, or maybe some other business transaction he doesn’t know or want to know about. He’s done a lot of shit in his past, but NOVA was all about information retrieval and disbursement, the occasional disappearing of files or drainings of accounts, tracking. He’s even wiped someone’s existence from the whole of the web before, but he’s never been in _person_ with a crew at any point in his life. Aside from that last mission, he'd been relatively harmless. It’s weird, and almost disconcerting, to be even slightly privy to the goings on of the other side of his screen all those years ago. 

It’s then that they notice him, because Immortal loses that serious, annoyed look and smirks instead, looking him over approvingly. “And here I thought cute choir boy was your best look.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, tugging at the leg of his pajama pants. They’re soft, probably the softest thing he’s ever owned, and dark blue. Joe had given them to him as a going-away present when he left Philly and he wore them on nights where he wanted to treat himself. If he was gonna eat rich food from an expensive place, then he was gonna do it in his favorite pants, damn it. 

“Looks hot, though,” Immortal wiggles his eyebrows. “Sure you don’t wanna take the shirt off for us, angel?”

“I’m good,” he says firmly. “Are we gonna eat or what? I was promised dinner in exchange for the most frustrating hour of my life.”

“Before it gets cold,” Hundar agrees and nearly knocks Immortal over with the force of his nudge. Immortal just laughs and picks up the three plates, hands one to Hundar and then offers one to James.

“Guest of honor.” He wobbles the plate until James comes over to take it from him. “You go first. Pick whatever you want, we like it all, so.” Immortal shrugs and hands him a fork and the one steak knife he owns. It had come with the set he’d bought when he moved in but he never actually used it except for the very rare occasion that he splurged and bought any kind of meat.

“You’re not gonna drop this either, are you,” James sighs, but he goes to the coffee table and looks over the collection of six big boxes, each an entree, and three smaller ones, sides and one salad. He ends up taking a little from the box of grilled shrimp, a section of one of the juiciest steaks he’s ever laid eyes on, a couple ribs, and one of the two lobsters. He tops it all off with a few of the salty fries from a side box and a forkful of salad just to prove to himself that he can make good choices.

Immortal looks like the cat that ate the canary when James sets his plate back on the table in the kitchen area. He and Hundar go to make their own food while James cuts up a few scraps of meat to feed to Ein when she looks at him with those big, kinda dumb eyes. She’s not the smartest pup in the world, but she’s the one he loves most, that’s for sure.

Soon enough, the boxes are closed up on the coffee table so Ein can’t jump into them and they’re all squeezed into his tiny table, with Hundar across from him and Immortal sitting between them. They’ve piled their plates, too, and James hadn’t realized how hungry he is until the smell wafts up and hits him. He feels his stomach tighten and clench and knows it’s going to start growling soon if he doesn’t feed it. Immortal’s choices are meat heavy, but Hundar has stuck mostly to the salad, the mashed potatoes, some sort of lasagne-type thing James isn't actually sure came from Outback at all.

Still, when they’re seated, he folds his hands together in his lap, bows his head, and quietly says grace to himself, mouthing the words more than anything.

He crosses himself subtly, which is difficult when it’s something he’s used to doing broadly, and opens his eyes to find them both looking at him - amusement on Brett’s face and vaguely confused disinterest on Immortal’s.

“It’s _Grace_ ,” he snaps at them, flushing. “It’s rude not to.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Immortal waves him off. “It’s just kinda cute, that’s all. You saying a prayer while hanging with us.”

“God forgives all sin,” James reminds him quietly, a bit more earnest than he means to be. It just makes Hundar grin, though.

“We’ll remember that next time we stop by our usual church,” Immortal scoffs and James looks at him curiously, ignoring his disdain. 

“ _You_ have a usual church?”

“Not really,” Hundar says, giving Immortal a look. “It’s not really _our_ church.”

“Do you _want_ it to be?” James blinks between them, tries to imagine either of them sitting through Mass, or even a sermon from a different sect of Christianity - hell, any sort of ceremony for any kind of organized faith. 

“You could say that.” Immortal shrugs. “The congregation is… exclusive.”

“It’s some sort of crime church, isn’t it?” James says with a sigh, and they both laugh at that.

“ _Crime church_.” Hundar shakes his head. “Listen, sweetheart, we’ll keep the whole sin thing in mind. Now eat the fuck up. This food seriously gets cold fast.”

-

They leave around midnight, don’t bother taking the leftovers home with them. It’s the fullest James’ fridge has been since he moved in and his mom was still sending him care packages. 

He lays in bed, soaked in darkness. He’s full from the food and still warm from the laughter that had been pulled from him throughout the night, and he feels… not guilty, but like he _should_ be.

Frank’s eulogy is still on the nightstand exactly where he’d left it a few nights ago, a folded up piece of notebook paper and a pen branded with the name of his church. 

He reaches out for it when the guilt has actually started to eat at him enough to make him shift uncomfortably, and finishes it off with all of the words that he knows he should use despite the taste of ash on his tongue.

When he’s done, he shoves it back on the bedside table, turns on his side so he doesn’t have to see it, and buries a hand in Ein’s fur before he goes to sleep.

-

No one except Ein is waiting for him the next night, but he doesn’t think about it much. Just takes Ein out for a couple hours, walking in big circles until she’s tired herself out so much he has to carry her back, and then feeds her before he gets changed. It’s been a hard day - his hands are sore from decorating and his arms from carrying heavy boxes of food donations.

He feels good, though. Their Angel Tree program with the local schools is coming to a close tomorrow and he’ll be spending the day sorting through bags of gifts, making sure that everything is appropriate before the families come to collect their bags. He doesn’t _like_ kids much, but he can’t lie about how nice it is to know that at least these kids will have something to open under their tree come Christmas morning.

He eats one of the boxes of leftovers, the rest of the grilled shrimp and the last of the mashed potatoes, and sleeps soundly again. He doesn’t think of the eulogy on his table or the two men who were the reason he’d had to write it in the first place.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

-

Saturday night is much the same. He gets home, takes Ein out, feeds her, eats leftovers, studies from his bible in a way he hasn’t since Frank died. Before all of this, reading the Word had been his bedtime ritual, something calming in the familiarity of the language if nothing else. 

He goes over the eulogy again for the first time since he finished it when he’s done re-reading the passages he’d wanted to, looks the words over and mouths them again and again until they fit on his tongue.

They taste just as sour as he thought they would, but he thinks he can do it, and do it convincingly. He’s petty - he can admit that, and he still isn’t exactly _sorry_ that Frank is gone. Just guilty that he hadn’t been brave enough to stand up or be the better man. He needs to go to confession, but something about going to that box and not telling the whole story feels _wrong_. 

So instead, he just reads the eulogy over and over and over until it’s burned onto his tongue, and then he sets it aside and sleeps.

-

“He was a good man,” he says, loud enough to be heard across the hundreds of people gathered. It could be over a thousand by now, every pew filled to bursting, extra chairs brought out and filled, people lining the back wall. All of them listen in silence, barely a cough, sniffle, or crying infant to interrupt him. “And the church, maybe myself most of all, are less for him. There was-,”

He pauses to clears his throat, and wonders if people will think it grief.

“There was a lot that he still had to teach me; about being a better man, a better clergyman, a better follower of the Lord. But I know that he looks down on us now, finally at rest in the heavenly house of the Lord, our Father.”

He bows his head to pray and knows that the whole congregation will mirror him. 

The bishop begins the prayer. James listens to him pray that Father Frank’s soul be cared for, loved and cherished as it was on earth, and remembers Hundar’s words. It all bounces together, mixing in his head - that night, the implication that Frank had been dirtier than some debts, the prayer now.

He sits when the final _amen_ echoes. Mass begins and he knows it will be a long one; Christmas Eve and any straggling confessors afterward. He’s due to be in early afternoon tomorrow to help the Sisters clean up. But this, at least, he knows by heart. When to stand, when to sit, when to sing, when to repeat and to chant.

It passes as most Masses do, him paying half attention, part of him guilty for letting his mind wander, the other part bored out of his own head. 

It’s not until nearly two in the morning that he finally gets home, feet dragging, exhausted.

When he opens his door, Immortal is on his couch, Hundar is stirring something on his stove, and there’s a tiny fake tree with twinkling white lights on the table by his bed, lighting up the little cove that is his bedroom area.

Ein, once again, has a milkbone that she’s happily chewing under the coffee table, but this one has a little red bow tied to the end she isn’t gnawing on.

“But it’s _Christmas_ ,” he says, like an excuse, and Immortal just grins at him, shark smile on full display.

“You could always show us the sleeves and we’ll leave.”

“And waste this fuckin’ delicious pasta I just slaved over?” Hundar snaps over his shoulder. “Don’t make promises I’m not gonna keep, asshole.”

“Oh, babe,” Immortal purrs. “You’re playin’ so sweet today,”

Hundar just grumbles and turns back to his pot.

“Don’t you two have, like… friends and family to harass? Did you bring a _tree_ into my apartment?”

“None of our friends are as cute, so we decided to hang here for the night.” Immortal flops over on the couch. “But, Jesus, you were gone _forever_. Hundar had to reheat the noodles.”

“I had _Mass_.” James frowns at him. “You know I work at a church, right? That we have, like, ceremonies and shit on religious holidays?”

“Ugh, whatever,” Immortal sniffs. “Skip it next time. I even texted you!” 

James pulls his phone from his pocket for the first time since he’d put it on silent before congregates had started to arrive, and sees that he does have a text from an unknown number that just says ‘ _show up_.’ 

“Yeah, okay, this definitely would have put a fire under my ass.” James rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Skipping Mass is a sin, by the way.”

“Everything’s a sin with you.” Immortal wrinkles up his nose and it’s not cute in the least.

“Ignore him,” Hundar says from the stove, still stirring with a slow, steady intensity. “He’s salty that he’s still not eaten.”

“You are the fucking weirdest gangsters to ever hold me up,” James gripes, but he goes to his drawers to pull out his dark pajama pants and a worn hoodie from his Philly days. The apartment is cold, they turned the air on, and he has no doubt his electric bill is going to be through the roof, but the chill feels good between pulling his cassock off in the bathroom and replacing it with his hoodie. 

When he comes back, Hundar is draining the noodles in his sink and stirring a pot on his other burner. He’s just got the two, and one works a whole lot better than the other, but Hundar seems to have worked around that because the noodles are done and he can hear whatever’s in the other pot bubbling. 

“You never said why you brought a tree. It’s Christmas Eve, dude. I’ll just have to take it down after tomorrow.”

“Everyone knows you keep the tree until at _least_ New Years,” Immortal scoffs. “Besides, Hundar was bummed out that your shoe box wasn’t even _kinda_ decorated. Can’t have that, can we?”

James looks at Hundar, who just sighs deeply like he’s thinking about boiling his own head instead of whatever else is in the pot. It makes James’ lips twitch, but he holds the smile off valiantly. He doesn’t want to encourage Immortal any more than he already has.

“This is ridiculous. You’re spending _Christmas_ at my apartment?” he re-emphasizes, trying to understand why he’s so fun to torment, why either of them want to spend _tonight_ of all nights here instead of with other people. 

“Yep.” Immortal lifts his feet up and turns around so he’s sitting properly, pats the place where his feet used to be. “Besides, you still owe me like, at least ten more games.”

“Hundar said I didn’t have to play with you anymore,” James reminds him, but he sits on the couch and accepts the controller that Immortal presses into his hands.

“Don’t listen to him, half of what he says is just so he’ll get in trouble later,” he winks and James blinks at him in confusion until the joke hits and he goes pink.

“ _Immortal_ ,” he admonishes, and they _both_ cackle at him. He _hates_ them.

“Eat first,” Hundar says. “Game after. I think we’ve waited long enough for fuckin’ spaghetti.”

Immortal makes a protesting noise, but he sets his controller down anyway. Within the next couple minutes, James finds himself at the table with food in front of him that he didn’t pay for with men who are kind of blackmailing him, trying not to laugh at a joke one of them is making.

The food is good, the company more than James has had in the last year. His mom had made some noise about flying in for Christmas both this year and the last, but he’d declined the offer and promised that he’d be too busy to even have a chance to see her before passing out. But now, he finds that he’s still tired but… willing to put it off for just a bit longer, while they’re here.

Hundar asks him what he did at the church if not look for the super secret vault and, with an eye roll that James feels is going to soon become a common expression for him if these two stick around much longer, he tells them about the Angel Tree program and the food program and the little parties they put on for the kids, the extra hours of prayer for those who need it. He’s not able to lead Mass, but nothing can stop him from praying with the congregates and he’s had a good few families who sought him out tonight.

Immortal wrinkles up his nose, but doesn’t make fun of him or the church-goers and James won’t ask for much more than that, because he’s pretty sure it takes all of his energy to achieve. 

The conversation turns to them when he feels like he’s spoken too much, and it somehow slowly leads to card games.

“You play poker?” Hundar asks him over his noodles and he finds himself shrugging and nodding at the same time.

“I’m not very good and I only really know Texas Hold’Em,” he says. “I can shuffle real well, though. Too much Go Fish with the Sunday Schoolers,” 

Immortal smirks at him, like he’s some sort of prey. “Let’s play a few hands. I’ll show you how it’s done, if you wanna learn.”

“I don’t exactly have much money to play with,” James snorts. “I’ve got a box of Cheez-Its and that’s about it.”

“Cheez-Its work,” Immortal grins and then slurps up another forkful of noodles while Hundar watches him with mild disgust.

So they finish up, pile their plates in the sink for James to scrub down later, and James pulls out his single card deck. It’s well-used, the box kinda ragged but the cards inside still useable. When he’s not studying and nothing good is on his local channels, he pulls out the deck, so they’re familiar in his hand.

“Want me to shuffle?” he asks when they’re settled again and each of them have ten Cheez-Its, two saltines, and an off-brand oreo. 

“Go right ahead, angel,” Immortal prompts, and James tugs the cards out and shuffles.

Immortal explains the game while they play and James wins the first hand, though he’s pretty sure they let him. He loses the second, wins the third and fourth, loses the fifth, wins the sixth, seventh, loses the eighth and then wins the next two hands before Hundar realizes what he’s doing. Unfortunately for he and Immortal both, it’s too late and they’re both down to Hundar’s saltine and Immortal’s final five Cheez-Its.

“Dude,” Hundar says, staring down at the table mournfully. He’s about five beers in and he looks like he’s leveling on that sleepy state of drunkenness where he could pass out or push harder depending on the company. Immortal’s not too far behind him with three cans and he’s leaning back in his chair, seems mostly sober if not for a softer line around his eyes.

“Dude, he’s card sharking us.”

“ _Card sharking_?” James frowns at him, half a can of beer still at his side and two kings in his hand. “I told you I’ve barely played this game, how could I be cardsharking you?”

“You _lied_ ,” Hundar says, but he sounds closer to laughter than anger. “Oh, you bitch, you fuckin’ lied to us.”

“No way.” Immortal shakes his head, lays his cards down even though they still have the river card to lay. “Show me your hand, motherfucker.”

Trying his hardest to keep the smile off his face, James flips a queen as the river card and lays his hand out to Hundar’s belly laugh and Immortal’s disbelief.

“Beginner’s luck?” he offers and Hundar nearly falls off his chair with his laughter, tilting it back on two legs and using one hand to keep his balance on the table.

“You are a _member of the clergy_!” Immortal yelps, outraged. “You _cheated_!”

“Me?” James blinks and pulls Immortal’s last five Cheez-Its to his pile, plucks Hundar’s saltine up and pops it in his mouth. “No way, man.” he says around the cracker.

Immortal groans and downs the last of his beer, shaking his head as he crushes the can in his hand. “I get played by the pretty face every damn time.”

“If it helps,” James offers, washing the saltine down with beer that’s gone room-temperature after sitting at his side for so long, “I really did learn to shuffle with the Sunday Schoolers. It’s just, ya’ know, I was one of the schoolers.”

“What do they _teach_ you in those classes?” Immortal demands. “Did fuckin’ Christ sucker innocents of their hard earned money?”

“No.” James shrugs, grins from behind his can, “But I don’t see no innocents around this table.”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bitch.” 

“Merry Christmas, _angel_ ,” James simpers back and eats another Cheez-It. It tastes all the sweeter for having, at some point, been on Immortal’s pile. 

Immortal shakes his head in disappointment, but James can see that he’s kind of impressed. “I trusted you, angelcakes.”

“There’s no cheating in love and war,” James shoots back. “And I do really love card games.”

That just makes Hundar laugh harder, a sort of giggle that gets so intense his chair finally bangs back onto all four legs so he can collapse into Immortal’s side and hide his face against the squeaks that his laughter has become.

His merriment has the both of them grinning despite James’ best efforts. 

“Okay, big guy,” Immortal says, soft, cupping the back of Hundar’s head and holding him in place as he stands them both up. Hundar almost immediately gets his arms around his waist and James watches Immortal nearly collapse under the weight he has to take on as Hundar sways. “Okay, time to get you home.”

Hundar must say something low enough that James can’t hear because Immortal smirks, turns his face to say something into his hair, and James looks down and starts collecting the cards to hide his own flustered state. They really do make a nice pair, Immortal pale and light next to Hundar’s dark hair and tanned skin, Immortal lean and tall to Hundar’s muscular and sturdy. 

Immortal starts to lead Hundar from the table and, when Hundar actually stumbles and Immortal almost crumples down with him, James stands up too.

“You, uh, you two gonna get home okay?”

“Yeah, probably,” Immortal says, strained. He tilts his head to the side so Hundar can nuzzle into his neck, exasperated and fond all at once. “More than four beers and he just wants to cuddle and forgets how to walk. I’ll just call an Uber.”

“Is that how you got here?”

“Nah,” Immortal shakes his head. “We brought his bike. But there’s no way this lug is gonna stay straight on that thing.” 

“Well, uh.” James hesitates, thinks it over in his head. He’d feel fuckin’ terrible if something happened to them on their way home, especially because Hundar doesn’t look like he could hurt a soul right now. “My couch is a pull out. If you, uh. If you want.”

Immortal gives him a considering look, strokes the back of Hundar’s head while he thinks, and James sees the slow smirk begin and is already rolling his eyes as Immortal says, “Oh, angelcakes, if you wanted a sleepover, all you had to do is ask.”

“Listen, motherfucker, do you want the pull out or not?” he snipes, glaring down at the table as he shoves the deck back into the box and then starts sweeping his winnings back into the Cheez-It box.

He looks up in time to see Hundar physically knock Immortal onto the couch with the force of a particularly aggressive hug and Immortal gives him the kind of long-suffering look he’s used to seeing on Hundar’s face. Lord Almighty, they really are a set, aren’t they.

“Yeah, we’ll, uh, we’ll take the pull out, thanks.”

James shakes his head to hide his chuckle, stands up to push the coffee table out of the way while Immortal wrestles Hundar up and makes him stand still so James can pull the cushions off the couch and yank the bar to let the sheets-covered mattress spring free.

“I’ll get,” He motions toward his closet and then hustles away to grab his extra blanket from the top shelf and two pillows from his bed. If there’s one thing he has in abundance, it’s pillows, so he can go without two of the tens he has for one night.

He brings his haul back just as Immortal is pulling at Hundar’s tight jeans and he clears his throat before Immortal can casually reveal his husband’s underwear to James, who has seen enough of both of their bodies for a lifetime.

Unfortunately, Immortal does _not_ in fact stop and he’s still kneeling to force Hundar into stepping out of his skinny jeans while Hundar bitches that he can do it himself when he looks up to see James with the pillows and blanket in his arms, who immediately forces his eyes to the ceiling. 

“You’re so _modest_ , angel,” Immortal laughs at him. “I promise, he’s got very good thighs.”

“‘Scuse you,” Hundar grumbles and he hears a scuffle break out but he knows if he looks he’s going to see a _lot_ of those very good thighs, and maybe that very good chest, too, or _Immortal’s_ very good thighs, and he has to sleep a few yards away from this. He won’t get a wink if he _knows_ that they’re both half undressed. 

“Here,” he dumps his armful on the bed. “Make - yeah, make yourself comfortable, I’ll just be-” he motions over his shoulder with his thumb, like they don’t know exactly where his bed is. 

“Angelcakes,” Immortal says in that _tone_ , that wheedling tone that James has heard enough to know he isn’t going to fuckin’ like what he says next. “Look at me.”

“No, that’s okay.” He clears his throat. “I should really-”

“Angel,” Immortal says again, softer, and James can’t resist the reluctant drag of his eyes from his ceiling to Immortal. 

He’s on the bed, Hundar sprawled out next to him, indeed wearing tight boxer-briefs that accentuate his very nice thighs, attached to his very nice hips and waist exposed by a shirt that’d ridden up, James guesses, before he’d starfished to blink lazily at them both. Immortal’s still dressed, thank the Lord, but his dark eyes are heated and he’s got a hand on Hundar’s stomach, splayed out and possessive and inviting all at once. 

“What?” he manages, swallowing around the fat slug that his tongue has turned into. 

“Nothin’.” Immortal shrugs. “I just wanted to see if you’d listen.”

James glares at him, turns on his heels and stomps to his bed where he crawls under the blankets with an agitated huff, turns the lights of the little tree off vindictively.

Immortal laughs at him, the _asshole_ , so James ignores him and just reaches down to help Ein jump up to join him. He hears Immortal pad across the studio and the lights go out all at once.

“Just remember, angel,” Immortal says into the darkness. “There’s plenty of room for you if you wanna join us.”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” James snaps back, harder than maybe it warrants, but Immortal just laughs again. He hears a shuffle of clothes, probably him getting his pants off, too, and the creak of the pull out mattress. There’s a quiet mumble from a rough voice, Hundar, and he hears Immortal whisper something back, words lost in the space between them, and then quiet.

Minutes later, there’s a soft snoring and it throws him off. He hasn’t ever had anyone stay in his apartment before, except for that brief weekend that Joe had been in town for a business thing and had stayed Saturday night before leaving for the airport early Sunday.

It’s not exactly comforting, but it’s not off-putting either. He falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Hundar’s breathing, his dog sleeping soundly under his hand, her heart beat nearly matching the snores.

-

He wakes up at - he checks the clock - four-fifty-one in the morning. It’s still dark, the city outside just as asleep as he should be, and Ein is a comforting weight against his chest where she’s nestled while he’d slept. 

He closes his eyes, pulls his legs up and shifts a bit more to get comfortable again. He’s starting to drift, on that edge of hazy sleep and wakefulness, when he hears it - again, he realizes, the thing that woke him in the first place.

It’s a sob.

He nearly sits up, remembering suddenly that he’s let two violent murderers sleep in his living room, but he hears a _shh_ and finds that his body’s frozen.

“ _Please_ ,” he hears the voice - higher than normal, raspy, breaking on another quiet sob. “ _Please_.”

“Oh, babe,” Immortal says, just as quiet - but there’s nothing for his voice to hide behind now, no passing cars or Ein’s claws click-clacking on the floor to mask. “Baby, you’re gonna wake up our gracious host. You know what happens if you wake him up?”

“I’m-” Hundar says and James can practically hear the tears in his voice, and it makes his entire body flush, go hot with confusion - is Immortal _hurting_ him? What is going -

“I’m sorry,” Hundar manages. “I’m sorry, _please_ , Aleks.”

_Aleks_.

“Shh,” Immortal - _Aleks_ \- shushes again. “Don’t I always take care of you, baby? All you gotta do is listen, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hundar gasps, “I’m - I’m listening, I promise, _please_.”

“ _Hush_.” Immortal does _something_ that makes Hundar _wheeze_. “You’re not listening. We can’t go fast, this bed _squeaks_. And our angel needs his beauty rest, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he, baby?”

Hundar gives some sort of agreement, a low-high hum.

“Words,” Immortal says, like he’s said it before, and Hundar sobs again.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, _yes_.”

“Good,” Immortal praises, “so we can’t go fast. But if you hold real still, I bet I can touch you just right, can’t I?”

“Yes,” Hundar says again, weaker, and James squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breathing steady. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Hundar’s breathing so hard, hitches and cut off cries that tell James exactly what’s happening to him, and he finds himself imagining it. _Aleks’_ hands on him, those dark green boxer briefs around his thighs or his ankles, Aleks pressed along his back and touching him on James’ pull out, yards away from where he’s supposed to be sleeping.

His body stirs - he feels the heat blooming, and shame and arousal fill him from his toes to the tips of his hair. He clenches his hands into fists, one under his pillow, supporting his head, the other in Ein’s soft fur.

Hundar tries to stay quiet. James can hear the way he’s biting his lip, hear the muffled sighs, the sobs that break loose every few seconds. 

“ _Aleks_ ,” he says again, the desperation in the name echoing the sudden desperation in the pit of James’ belly, charges through him hard enough that he nearly jolts. “Aleks, _Aleks_ , please-”

Immortal hums low. Darker than James has ever heard except, maybe, under the bishop’s table.

“You wanna come, baby?”

Hundar _mhm_ s back again, then seems to remember that he’s supposed to be using words so says, “yes, please.”

James hears Immortal laugh, breathy and soft, just for Hundar, and the shame increases even as the arousal follows. He’s supposed to be sleeping - he’s listening in on something that they’re sharing together, even if it is in his apartment. He’s _getting off_ to it.

“Yeah?” Immortal says, like a question. “I dunno, babe. You were so mean to me today. Maybe if you apologize, I could see about getting you off.”

The words are only just out of his mouth before James hears Hundar gasping apologies, quiet little _I’m sorry_ s and _please, so sorry_ s that make his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He has to swallow, but his mouth just fills again, tasting like acid and sugar; a sour candy. 

The apologies must be enough, because he hears the bed squeak, just once, and then Hundar is gasping and there’s nothing Immortal can do to stop the sound of the bed shaking from happening. He doesn’t seem to mind though, because all James hears from him are soft reassurances, sweet nothings about how good Hundar feels, how much he wants to touch him, how sweet his begging words are. 

When Hundar comes, James can hear it in the shift of his muffled moans. He can imagine it - one of Aleks’ hands over Hundar’s mouth to keep him quiet, the other wrapped tight around his dick, a knee between his thighs so he can grind on him. Hundar orgasming, his body shuddering against the thin mattress and weak IKEA frame, eyes closed tight.

All at once, everything except the sounds of Hundar’s labored breathing stops. There’s nothing but that, the occasional hitch in his breath all that James has to give his mind the next move for the image he has in his head to copy. 

He realizes he’s taken his hand off Ein and let it drift to the front of his pajama pants only when he feels the first brush of his palm against his dick. He’s hard, achingly so, harder than he’s been in a good, long time. Just the brush of contact is enough to make him nearly jolt, and only the thought that they’ll realize he’s awake is enough to keep his body from reacting.

“You’re lucky,” _Aleks_ says, and for a moment full of humiliation James thinks he’s talking to him, remember him saying those words when he’d dropped to his knees in the church, until he continues. 

“I should spread you out and make you sleep like that, let the good deacon see what a slut you are.”

Hundar _whines_ , and James has to tangle his fingers in his sheets. He’s going to replay that sound for the rest of his life, dream of it, think of it every time he even remembers he has a dick. Hundar, with his muscles the size of James’ head and those powerful thighs and thick beard, _whining_ about James seeing him spread out. 

Jesus. Lord help him. He's not strong enough for this test.

“You’re _lucky_ ,” Immortal repeats and there’s the sound of clothes shifting. “He’s _chaste_ and it wouldn’t be any fun if we scared him off just yet, so you get to keep your dignity for now.”

“Aleks,” Hundar rasps, sounding wrecked, “God, your hands-”

Immortal hushes him again, and James hears the sound of kissing, the kind of wet noises that tell him it’s open mouthed and that there’s probably tongue. He’s not fuckin’ kissed like that since he was in his early twenties, since before he’d even entered the seminary. 

He can’t see it, but he imagines Immortal stroking Hundar’s belly as they kiss, that quick flash he’d got before they’d all gone to bed suddenly alive in the fantasy. Hundar has hair, dark and thick, all along his belly, but it’s thickest toward his belly button and seems to only get thicker as it disappears into his boxer briefs. He’s just a little pudgy, but James is sure that there’s muscle there, too, that if he touched he would find the soft give of fat lays on a layer of hardness. He can imagine it, imagine the heat of his skin and the give of his body under James’. Wants.

They don’t say anything else that James can hear, just those kissing noises that eventually trail off into the quiet again.

His clock reads five-fifteen. He stares at it, can’t even imagine going back to sleep. He knows if he closes his eyes, he’ll just see them like how he’d imagined. He gets split-second glimpses every time he blinks, but he’s so tired - he’s only been asleep for maybe an hour or two, and he has to rest. His body won’t listen to his mind yelling at him to not sleep, that sleeping will mean _dreaming_. 

He falls asleep again, finally, when the ache between his legs calms from thoughts of the driest verses he can bring to mind.

He dreams of warm mouths and grasping hands, dreams of someone calling him _sweetheart_ in a rough voice, of someone beckoning him with _come on, angel, come for me_ , of that whine that he’ll have burned into his mind forever. Of being allowed to drag it out himself.

When he wakes again, it’s bright with light coming in through the one window he has in the bedroom, where the blinds had been left cracked. His couch is made up properly, the leftover pasta has been put away, and someone has left a note that just reads _Thnks_ and has a weird squiggle that he _thinks_ are meant to be angel wings. He’s got no doubt Immortal left it and Hundar’s the one that put the pasta away, though they did leave the dishes for him to clean up and he finds the beer cans lined up neatly on his counter like he’s supposed to save them for some sort of art installation.

He takes a shower, the water as cold as he can stand it, until he’s wiped the dream from his memory. The whole thing, he decides in the shower, was a dream. Not a scene he’d woken up to, but just a nightmare that his brain had conjured up because he’s - because he’s not praying enough.

He’s not praying enough. He just needs to go back to the church, pray more, until the thoughts and dreams and fantasies and that _whine_ , go away.

He leaves for work an hour early after taking Ein out and filling her bowl, and spends each second between when he arrives and when he leaves helping the Sisters on his knees at the altar. He begs for the memories of the dream to leave him, wonders what he's done for this to be brought to his door, which of his sins warranted temptation he wants to be strong enough to resist.

He can still hear that whine when he has to stand. 

If he thinks about it in a different way, it’s the only gift he’d received from someone other than Joe or his mom. Merry fuckin’ Christmas.

Alone in one of the back rooms, hands clutching a broom he’s resting his forehead on, he lets himself say _Aleks_ aloud. 

It tastes, he imagines, like Original Sin.


	4. If you were church, I'd get on my knees (part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends part 1 ;))))
> 
> there won't be a break between posts with starting part 2 in two weeks (tho there probably will be for part 3 but thats a Bit from now so fingers crossed i get it done!!) 
> 
> thank you guys for all the support and i hope you like how the story develops from here <3 <3 <3

James doesn’t hear from either of them for the next two days, but he has to say he’s grateful for it.

Grateful that he’s not spending his time with murderers, of course, but also that he has a few days to… clear his head from the dreams. He’s humiliated that he would think of either of them like this. Humiliated that he’d gone a good bit of time since his last near slip-up with his vow of chastity, but he’d nearly _touched himself_ to the sounds of a married couple’s intimacy. Humiliated that he had dreamed of it after the fact.

It's not that he’d nearly masturbated that is the problem. He knows enough biology to not be ashamed of his body and the needs it makes clear. It’s that he’d nearly done it using their intimacy as his porn, that he’d imagined his hands on them and theirs on him, shared caresses and kisses both, and that he’d _wanted_ so sharply that it had been near overwhelming in the dark silence of the space they had shared.

Regardless, no one is in his apartment on Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday, though, brings Immortal again, who only sticks around long enough to flirt and admit that he’d come because he’d missed Ein but didn’t have the time to stick around. James isn’t exactly sad to see him go, but he does watch reruns of Frasier and refuses to think about anything but reciting his current passage of study over and over again until he’s too tired to stay up any longer.

He has Thursday off, so he sleeps in until nearly eleven, wakes up and stretches out and takes advantage of the fact that he doesn’t have to wear a shirt in his own apartment if he doesn’t want to.

He cooks himself some eggs, and then cooks one for Ein, too, and sits on the floor with a plate in his hands and gets just a little enthralled with watching her eat. He’d be embarrassed to admit just how much awe he thinks of her with; it must be close to how parents look at their ugly little babies, he imagines. She’s just so fuckin’ tiny, fluffy and excitable and slow and perfect. Everything she does kind of makes him want to smile and it’s fuckin’ stupid, but he just likes to chill with her. She makes him feel calmer, better about everything.

So they sit on the floor together and he watches her eat her scrambled egg while he mashes up his own sunny side up. He takes a shower, gets dressed in some sweats and a loose tee with sleeves that he has to roll up to his wrists for how stretched they are, and takes Ein to the dog park.

It’s almost the only time he sees anything outside of his apartment or the church, and it’s his favorite place to be of the three. The world is green, the dogs are friendly, the people distant but kind. He isn’t NOVA, he isn’t the deacon, he isn’t anything but an anonymous face with a cute corgi pup who likes to pull tails and then hide behind his legs until her bullied victims lose interest in her. He spends close to three hours in the park, just tossing around a tiny frisbee marked with his college’s logo and laughing when Ein tries to jump to catch it even though it’s still a good foot and a half above her highest leap.

It’s only when she’s practically passed out from exhaustion, not even able to wag her little tail anymore, that he packs up their things and carries her the mile and a half back to his apartment.

Hundar is waiting for him when he gets there, face freshly shaven. James jolts when he spots him, not recognizing him for the split second it takes him to connect those dark eyes and that tan skin to the mental picture he has under _Hundar_.

“It’s not even four o’clock,” he says in greeting, too tired himself to think of _anything_ except maybe another shower and his bed for a nap. “Don’t you two have jobs? And what happened to your face?”

“We work sometimes.” Hundar shrugs, sipping at a bottle of water James is sure is from his own fridge and James can hear how his voice might wrap around that whine. Ein is too tired to greet their guest with her usual enthusiasm, but she manages to waddle over to Hundar and put her paws on his outstretched legs, rest her face on one of his knees and give him a sad look until he picks her up and lets her nestle into his lap. He ignores the second question.

“ _Spoiling_ her,” James reiterates from days ago, shaking his head as he starts to put their things away. Leash and harness on the door rack, blanket and duffle on the ground a little ways from the door.

“She deserves it,” Hundar announces, sounding pleased as punch that Ein is letting him rub her belly for all he’s worth while she lays there like a log.

James doesn’t answer. Just snorts and heads to the fridge for his own water bottle. “So, what’s brought you to my doorstep this time? Another deal at your home? Do you guys only work with dealers who don’t like one of you?”

“Ha ha.” Hundar rolls his eyes without _actually_ rolling his eyes. James hopes that he, too, can one day perfect an expression so perfectly disdainful without actually changing the neutral set of his mouth or brows. “No, we work with plenty of people who like us both, thanks. I just dropped by because I wanted to warn you.”

“About?” James prompts, walking to his drawers to pull out a new tee to change into. Hundar isn’t the one who’s obsessed with his sleeves, so he doesn’t think much of it when he just strips his shirt off to switch it out. He looks over his shoulder when Hundar doesn’t continue, only to find his eyes locked on James.

“Hello?” James waves a hand toward him to catch his attention. “Warn me about what?”

Hundar blinks, blinks again and then shakes his head and looks up to James’ face instead of his chest.

“Uh,” he says and then seems to have to stop and collect what he wants to say. “Just that the police are making a stink again. They might stop by. Just keep your story straight and it’ll all be fine.”

James doesn’t panic but only because he knows that panic will be his ruin.

He’d panicked once, when he’d been young, maybe seventeen and still new to being NOVA. Slipped up enough that someone in the FBI had tracked one of his deep-dives for information to his set-up at a run-down apartment complex, a place that didn’t ask too many questions about some sketchy paperwork as long as the dirt-cheap rent was paid.

He’d cut and run the whole operation, had to play hand after hand of poker around town for nearly three months before he could afford to get a set up as good as the one he’d lost. Looking back, there were about ten different ways he could have saved that rig but he’d seen the two suits sniffing around and bolted.

So he doesn’t panic. Instead, he pulls his shirt on slowly and finds himself nodding.

“Right,” he says finally. “Keep the story straight.”

“And what did you tell them?” Hundar asks and it’s the first time either of them had actually asked. It makes James think that they hadn't really cared, so long as it hadn't been the _whole_ truth.

But he’s run it through his head enough, those hours spent in a cinderblock room with different detectives. Shawcross had been the first, and the most forceful, but the last one, Luna, had been pretty nice. When he’d scoured the internet for any information on any detective or beat cop he’d spoken to, he’d found that Luna had been raised Catholic. He had felt bad, _still_ feels bad that his station had probably impacted how he was treated. Then again, bias in the police force isn't exactly a secret.

It’s the first time he’s _really_ thought about that night since, well… that night.

“A man and a woman with a New York accent came in, asked Frank a lot of questions I couldn't remember about drugs, then shot him and ran before they found me. I tried to go flag the police down and slipped in the blood so that's… that’s why they found me…”

He doesn't know what starts it. One second, he's holding his bottle and recounting that night and the next he’s on the floor clutching at his chest, Hundar at his side and telling him to breathe, the both of them just out of range of a spreading pool of water.

“Hey, hey.” Hundar is kneeling next to him, hand hovering over his shoulder. “James, it’s okay-”

“It’s - it’s not.” James shakes his head frantically. “Holy fuckin’ - Jesus, I-”

Hundar puts his hand on James’ knee, squeezes gently. “James, listen to me, okay? It’s over. It’s been over for a month now, it’s done.”

“I - I can’t, I can’t-” James blinks rapidly, tries to match the men who’d held him at gunpoint and threatened his puppy and shot Frank while they talked about dinner plans to the guys who had brought a Christmas tree into his apartment and bought him Outback and let him cardshark them, the guys who he’d _listened in on_ -

Hundar hushes him, voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart, you know you’re safe, right? Nothin’s gonna happen to you now. You’re our favorite innocent to menace, remember?”

“You were gonna _shoot me_ -” James pants, accusing through his gasps for air. “You - he - you _both_ , I was - you were gonna _shoot me_ -”

“I’m sorry,” Hundar says, just as gentle as his first words, holds one of James’ hands to his own chest and breathes in and out slowly. “I’m sorry, James. Please, just breathe. Like me, see?”

He breathes in and out again, obvious seconds between each slow inhale and exhale and James doesn’t know what else to do but what he says. He tries to match his breathing to Hundar’s and can’t at first, too fast or too slow, but he eventually gets in sync and it’s only when he’s shakily inhaling and holding for five seconds before exhaling that he realizes that his face almost aches with how hot it is, that he’s sweating and his eyes are stinging and he feels broken up.

He pulls his hand away from Hundar’s chest, wraps his arms around his knees, pulled tight to his own body, and rests his forehead in the crook of his elbow. It makes breathing difficult, but he needs the space to himself with Hundar so close and his studio suddenly feeling so fucking big. Ein’s come over at some point, abandoned her now-constant supply of milkbones to lay close by and whine each time she huffs an exhale, like she’s matching Hundar, too.

They sit on the floor while he pulls himself together, a weird parallel to his position just a few hours earlier when he’d been eating eggs with Ein. Hundar doesn’t touch him or try to talk, but he’s a solid presence that James uses to ground himself, even as he’s partly the cause for this sudden anxiety.

Finally, he rubs his face against his arm to get rid of any wetness, blinks a few times when he sits up, glances at Hundar’s face. It’s set in his usual expression - a vague frown, forehead relaxed but the lines around his mouth deep from how often he has need for an unhappy expression. He’d look just like the wedding picture James had seen in his apartment if only he were smiling.

He finds himself wondering in an off-handed manner what church they’d married in. If there had been a ceremony or if they’d just dressed up and gone to the county clerk’s office. They’d mentioned a church, not _their_ church, but one they go to regularly enough that it’d been worth mentioning.

“What’s the church you go to like?” he finds himself rasping, sounding just the wrong side of recovering from hysterics. His hands are still shaking.

“Run down,” Hundar says instead of dodging the question, which is maybe the only thing he could have done that wouldn’t have ended in James flipping shit again. “Not big and pretty like yours. It’s all wood panels over the broken out windows. It’s not in a great part of town, that, you know, that funky little district just off Boy Park? But the… clergy pay for its upkeep. It’s definitely not a full time place like yours, though.”

“But you like it?”

“Honestly, it doesn’t do services,” Hundar admits. “Most of the time, it’s just people like me and Immortal showing up. Doing deals in the back pews, or sometimes going up front if we’re feeling particularly guilty. It’s kinda multi-religious, I guess. Don’t matter what god you’re prayin’ to, if you’re prayin’.”

“Doing shady shit in a church isn’t very…” James starts to say, then stops because he isn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Nice? Right? Good? Respectful? None of those words describe the jobs of loan sharks.

Hundar seems to understand because James sees him nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” he says, and that’s that.

James rubs at his face again. Hundar gets up eventually, comes back with a cold rag that James accepts and presses to his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says meekly into his palms, using the rag as an excuse to not look at him.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hundar takes a seat on the floor with him again and James keeps the rag up, the cold water soothing the ache of not only his eyes but the surrounding skin, too.

There’s another break of quiet as the rag does it’s magic and James recovers from… whatever that had been. Some sort of PTSD-esque flashback to something that he’d thought he’d come to terms with, that he was letting the guys that had held him up into his personal space with very little actual protest. Now, he just feels… scared, maybe. Not of Hundar, exactly, but of the guy James knows he _can_ be. Of the thought that, technically, he and Ein are both being held hostage.

When Hundar starts to talk, James is listening but almost more to the cadence than the words. “We don’t… we aren’t, like, serial murderers just looking for the chance to shoot some fuckers up. It comes with the job, sometimes, but the people who get hurt are rarely innocent. Frank wasn’t just some old priest we decided to fuck up.”

“Rarely, huh,” he says quietly in response, sniffing hard once. “Just the witnesses.”

“We fucked up,” Hundar admits. “We didn’t scope first. We should have. You were… not expected. But, despite how he acts, Immortal’s one’a those real smart types. He’s always thinking behind that stupid smile. I know it was scary. Hell, it was scary for _me_ and I had the gun. But he probably knew he was gonna get you to work with us the second he saw you. I don’t think he had any plans to shoot you at all, really.”

“But you did?” James asks, curling in on himself smaller.

“I do what Immortal tells me to do.” Hundar doesn’t touch him, but James can feel the heat of him as he leans closer, tone comforting. “If he didn’t have any plans to shoot you, then neither did I. He calls the shots when we’re on the job. I know it probably doesn’t help what you’re feeling, because it was fucked up what happened to you. I’m not so blind that I can’t admit that we’re the bad guys.”

“You threatened my puppy, man.” James glares, but it’s hidden behind the rag. He can only hope that his voice conveys his unhappiness.

“Sweetheart, I can _guarantee_ that he would not have touched a hair on that dog’s head,” Hundar assures him. “You told us about her and we used her to manipulate you. But I can promise you, as much as that’s worth, that she wasn’t ever in any actual danger.”

James takes a few minutes to digest all of that. Hundar’s right, it _doesn’t_ help the hurt and fear, it doesn’t make it any easier to remember how terrified he’d been that they’d kill him, hurt Ein. But it soothes something he can’t name, at least, that Hundar apologized, that Ein wasn’t actually in danger.

“And...” Hundar does touch him then, rough palm soft and light on his knee again. “If it helps at all, you could probably admit that you’ve been feeding us bullshit this whole time and Immortal would be pissed, but you _still_ wouldn’t be hurt.”

James glances at his face from the corner of his eye and he looks earnest, dark eyes as soft as James has seen them outside of when he’s looking at Immortal. He looks years younger without the beard, softer.

“The sleeves really mean that much to him, huh?” he decides to say, weakly joking, and he’s rewarded with a small but genuine smile.

“He’s gonna be _so_ fuckin’ salty that I saw them. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him what they look like.”

“It’s rude to watch people undress,” James grumbles, wiping at his face with the rag again. Hundar skims his palm up and down his thigh - a comfort, not a tease, but James still feels his cheeks heat up. Immortal teases with his words, tries to pick at him with barbed or innuendo-laden remarks, but Hundar is more physical. Every time he touches James, it’s with a _purpose_ and James is starting to see that he uses his touch in the same way that Immortal uses his voice, if not to reach the same ends.

“There is not a righteous man on earth who continually does good and who never sins,” Hundar responds and it _throws_ him, takes him a second to connect it back to the context of the conversation. The heat in his cheeks turns to a burn and he throws the rag at Hundar with a groan.

“You two are the _worst_!” he yelps. “The fucking worst!”

Hundar catches the rag, ducks his head with a laugh that almost makes James want to stop yelling at him, full of mirth.

“With eyes full of adultery,” Hundar says after a second, laughing still through the words. “They never stop sinning. They seduce the unstable, they are experts in greed. You unstable, sweetheart? We’d be glad to show you exactly how expert we are.”

“Did you just - you can’t just quote Peter at me,” James flusters, but Hundar only grins. He’s _teasing_ , and it’s pulling James from the fear and anger and back to how he’s kind of used to feeling around them after the last couple weeks; on his guard because they’re both _flirts_ and it’s fucking terrible, but also kind of… having fun. They’re both nice to talk to, in their own different ways, and James hasn’t really _talked_ to anyone in awhile.

“Don’t worry.” Hundar finally wipes his eyes and gets himself under control. “I don’t remember much. Some lines always stick out, though. Come in handy when you least expect it.”

“Lapsed Catholics.” James shakes his head. “The _worst_. Know enough to get smart with you and quote the Word but always forget the context.”

“About sums it up,” Hundar agrees as he stands up. When he offers a hand, James takes it. “I should get going. I just wanted to tell you about the cops snooping around the church so you had some heads up.”

“Thanks,” James says. “I, uh. Would have hated for… that to happen with a detective, instead.”

“Well they couldn’t have apologized for us, so.” Hundar shrugs, rocks on his heels once, but doesn’t actually head for the door. Instead, he watches James just long enough that James shifts uncertainly.

“What?” he demands, and Hundar shrugs again but slowly lifts his hand to James’ face. He swipes his thumb under one of his eyes, touch so light it’s barely there.

“Eyelash,” Hundar explains, but doesn’t actually take his thumb away from James’ cheek for a second longer.

“Oh, uh,” James clears his throat, smiles and hopes it doesn’t come off as shivery as his insides feel. “Thanks. Guess I missed that wish, huh?”

“Coulda wished your way outta this mess,” Hundar offers, a quiet joke.

James weighs his next words carefully. “I’ve always wanted a pony, actually.”

The smile he gets at that is enough to make his heart skip once.

Hundar drops his hand, shoves both fists into the pockets of his ripped up camo jeans, holes in the knees and ratty along the cuffs at his ankles. “We’ll, uh. Probably see you in a couple days. Immortal’s got plans to get you tipsy on champagne so he can see at least one of the sleeves.”

“Isn’t it against the, like… spousal code to reveal his secret plans to me?”

“Well, we can’t let him get away with _everything_ ,” Hundar trails off and James is giggling into his hand before he can help it, lips pulled up in a smile he wants to wipe off his own face before he embarasses himself.

“Don’t you two have fuckin’... crime parties and shit to go to on holidays? I have Mass both New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Even if you _do_ see me, it’ll be long enough for me to kick your asses out so I can sleep.”

“We do,” Hundar says, “but we like you more, so.” While James is still recovering from _that_ blow, he goes on, “Besides, try kickin’ Immortal out when he’s got cheap champagne and a plan, I dare you.”

“But I have _Mass_ ,” James says dolefully.

Hundar just gives him a _what can ya’ do_ sort of smile and turns to leave. James follows him to the door, trying to think of ways to plead his case for why they shouldn’t just show up at his apartment on New Year’s Eve, and has just thought up the perfect _but think of my health, Hundar_ line when Hundar opens the door.

Standing in the hall, fist raised to presumably knock, is Detective Luna. Behind him, Shawcross looks suspicious, already scribbling in his notepad

James feels the floor drop out from under him. Without really thinking, he reaches out for Hundar and clasps a tight hand into the back of his shirt, out of sight of the detectives.

“Oh,” he manages. “Hello.”

“Good evenin’, Mister Wilson,” Luna smiles, then frowns. “ _Deacon_ Wilson.”

“James is fine,” James says faintly, “I’m not even in uniform, Detective.”

“Well.” Luna shifts uncomfortably. “Still. Wouldn’t wanna be disrespectful or anything. I don’t think we’ve met.” He offers a hand to Hundar. “Detective Luna, LSPD. And you are?”

“You got ID?” Shawcross says from behind Luna, a little bit forceful, and James had forgotten how very convinced he’d been that James had killed Frank himself. His instincts are good at least, if not totally accurate.

“Last I checked, I don’t gotta hand my ID to any tommy on the scene,” Hundar says smoothly, but takes Luna’s hand. “But the name’s Brett.”

“He was just…” James starts to say _leaving_ , and then realizes that he doesn’t think he’ll be letting go of Hundar’s shirt. It had been so easy to say _don’t panic_ when he was just changing his shirt, safe in his apartment with someone who knew how to hide their involvement in illegal activity. It’s completely different to stand right in front of the suits that had found his rig and lie.

He can tell himself that, really, nothing he was saying was _wrong_ \- just fudged a bit. Just to hide that he’d been found, that he’d made a deal with the killers. But he knows it’s a lie and he isn’t that good at lying. Even to himself.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Luna says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “We just needed to talk to you, James. Go over your story again now that you’ve had some time to think.”

“Did…” James makes himself relax his shoulders, reminds himself that he just has to be confident. “Did something happen? A break?”

“Not quite.” Luna shakes his head. “Or, maybe. We’ve got a third witness who’s come forward. Her story and yours don’t exactly match up, though, so we want to go over the details with you one last time.”

“Oh.” James nods, though he doesn’t quite feel it. “Oh, yeah, of course. Please. Come in, whatever you need. You want coffee? Tea? Water? I’ll… see you later, Brett.” He manages to unclasp his fingers from Hundar’s shirt and step aside to let Luna and Shawcross, who still looks mutinous about the ID thing, into his apartment.

Hundar looks at him, narrowed eyes and thoughtful expression, and James sees him make the decision even as he says, “no, I’ll stick around. You don’t gotta relive it alone.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Luna says. “It really… just, you know, for safety and accuracy reasons, we prefer to not have friends present during the questioning.”

James doesn’t have time to panic before Hundar’s dropping a familiar arm around his waist and tipping him into his side.

“Yeah, okay,” Brett says disagreeably, arm tense around James. “What about significant others? We allowed to offer emotional support when our boyfriend’s been present for a fuckin’ murder at his place of employment, detective?”

“Maybe if they have ID so we can confirm their identity,” Shawcross cuts in and James is a little bit dizzy from the panic and back-and-forth, but he does see Hundar roll his eyes so hard they nearly come out of his skull and dig his wallet out of his pocket. He’s holding so tight around James’ waist that James couldn’t step away even if he wanted to, so he doesn’t try. Just leans into the touch and reminds himself that he has Hundar - _Brett?_ Brett and Aleks. He wants to say their names out loud - with him. At this point, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get off scot-free if he confesses.

He’s gathered a lot of information in the weeks since Frank’s death, and he’s gotten quite fuckin’ friendly with the killers. Hell, he still has that tree on his bedside table. They’ve slept on his pull out, he’s shared meals with them. Only a tiny portion of that can be blamed on the blackmail that Hundar had just assured him wouldn’t come to pass at allt. Part of him isn’t sure he’d be okay with either of them being caught, anyway.

“Happy?” Hundar says crossly, holding his wallet sideways so they can both get good looks. James resists the urge to look himself. He sees Shawcross scribble frantically in his notebook and it suddenly clicks, why Hundar’s got a bare face: they’d been spotted by someone, as a bearded man and a smaller guy with dirty blond hair, probably.

“A man’s been killed, so, no.” Shawcross frowns at him, but Luna steps between them with a subtle nudge to his partner.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says, a southern drawl to his voice that would be soothing if not for the fact that he is trying to arrest James and his would-be boyfriend. Or boyfriend _s_ , if they find Brett’s marriage certificate when they put his name through. That he, a Catholic priest-to-be, has. Yes.

“But, uh, just to be clear...” Luna hesitates. “You’re saying that you’re… Deacon Wilson’s boyfriend?”

“Just to be clear,” Hundar repeats back to him, in the same tone, “You’re asking me to confirm that we’re together because…?”

“It’s just-” Luna starts and Shawcross cuts in for him.

“It’s just that you’re a deacon at a pretty conservative church, Wilson. Do they know? Did _Frank_ know?”

“It’s almost twenty-eighteen, dude.” Brett wrinkles his nose up at them, pulls James closer protectively. “Are you for real right now? For fuck’s sake.”

“It’s okay,” James interrupts, because Shawcross looks ready to debate the appropriateness of his question and he has a feeling Hundar won’t back down here for more than one reason. “No. No, no one at the church knows. Including Father Frank. As far as… really anyone knows, Brett and I are just...” He hesitates, hemming and hawing for their stupid notepads. “...just friends.”

“Now that our relationship status has been established,” Brett says with a controlled amount of annoyance, “can you get on with your questions? James has been losing it enough about this fuckin’ mess as it is without having to relive it. Who even comes forward, like, a month later?”

“We’re not at liberty to say,” Luna says, sounding contrite enough that James takes his own mental note of it. “We really are sorry about this, Deacon.”

“Really,” James insists, Hundar’s arm a solid weight to keep him grounded, “James is fine, Detective. I’m not in uniform.”

“Let’s go over what happened that night. From the beginning of your day to when you got to the station,” Shawcross says, flipping to a new page. James has never wanted to throw a notepad away from himself before, but the urge is near overwhelming now.

“Why don’t we take a seat?” Luna suggests. “We might be here for a bit.”

James and Hundar migrate to the couch and Luna, after a second of hesitation, drags over two chairs from the table - leaving a lonely one left - for he and his partner. Ein trots up once they’ve all sat down and settles under the coffee table with her half-eaten milkbone. She's still too tired from the park to make a fuss but she gives the strangers a suspicious look that tells James someone will be getting their ankles nipped as soon as she’s rested.

What follows is nearly an hour of grilling. James isn’t honestly sure he would have held up under it if he hadn’t had Hundar sitting with him, ready to cause some sort of strife at any moment if James were to falter.

“Look,” James finally says, lets his voice crack. It’s been an emotional few hours, both with the detectives and with Hundar before they’d arrived, and he’s ready to collapse somewhere and just sleep until things don’t make his head spin quite so much. “I don’t know anything about - about two guys? I didn’t _see_ anything except the inside of the confessional. I can tell you what I _heard_ though, and I heard what I _think_ was a guy and a woman, and I’m pretty sure she had an accent that I _maybe_ would say was New York or Jersey or something close to Philly, at least. I can’t tell you what they looked like. I can’t remember exactly what they said. I’m sorry, I wish I could!”

“We understand.” Luna pats his knee lightly. “This is difficult. I’ve been in the wrong place a wrong time or two myself. But is there _anything_ you can remember? Any detail? The smallest thing may be the clincher here, James.”

James leans into Hundar like he’s been doing for the last hour and Hundar lets him, arm around his shoulder. They’d had their fingers tangled for a while before James had pulled away to fold his hands in his lap, but Hundar’s no slouch in the supportive boyfriend department and he’s settled for stroking his arm while James collects himself.

“Hold on,” James sighs, closes his eyes and tries to think of _something_ he could give them that would make sense for him to forget in the hubbub. “...no. I’m sorry, no, I can’t - I can’t think of anything I haven’t already told you. Do you want what the confessional looked like? I can give you that, but honestly, from the second I heard them threatening him to when I heard them leave I was praying.”

And that, at least, was the truth.

“It’s not that we don’t want to believe you, Deacon,” Shawcross says, though James has a feeling that he absolutely doesn’t want to believe him. “It’s only that we have a witness that says she saw two men loitering near the church a few hours before the shooting, your shaky testimony about a woman from the East Coast and her strong, silent type partner, some questions about drugs you can’t remember or name, and the Father’s blood all over your robes.”

“Detective Shawcross,” James draws himself up, trying to look as righteous as Father Frank had ever looked. “In less than four months, I am going to be ordained as a _priest_ in the church where I was almost killed, where my mentor was murdered. If I knew anything that would help you find people who hurt other innocent people, I would tell you. That is what I _can_ tell you. If I _do_ remember anything else, then you’ll be the first people I call.”

Luna winces and Shawcross looks unconvinced, but neither of them put up any protests when Hundar takes the cue to stand up as a polite sign that he’ll be showing them the door.

“Thanks for your time, Deacon,” Luna says, sympathetic, “I’m sorry we had to drag all of this back up.”

“It’s… it’s okay.” James shrugs, smiling shakily. “Just… can you do me a favor?”

“I can sure try,” Luna smiles back and James curls in, clutching at his arms. He wonders if he looks pathetic enough, if his nerves are shining through.

“If you talk to anyone from the church again, could you…” He flicks his eyes pointedly to Brett. “Please don’t mention…”

“Oh,” Luna says, realization dawning and then reassurance slipping over his face. “Oh, yeah, no. Our job isn’t to out people for what they do in their own time, Deacon. This secret’s safe with us.”

James nods jerkily, and lets his body go limp as he bends over his knees, puts his head in his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I’m - I’m just-”

“You don’t have to explain, sweetheart,” Hundar says, as soft as he’s sounded since the detectives showed up. “They get it. They’re leaving now. Right?”

“Right,” Shawcross says, and even he sounds just the slightest bit unsure. James doesn’t watch, just listens for when the door clicks shut and then the lock slides into place. The moment he hears the _tick_ , he shoots up and stares at Hundar with wide eyes. Hundar’s watching him, disbelief almost as plain on his face as it feels on James’.

“Did we…” he mouths, terrified that they’re still standing right outside his door.

Slowly, Hundar nods.

James sits back, staring in shock, and then scrubs his face and stands up.

“ _Brett_?” he hisses. “That wasn’t your real ID, was it?”

“Technically no.” Hundar shrugs. “It’s the one I got before I got married, it’s got my old name on it.”

“So… your name really is Brett?”

“We just conned the cops directly to their faces and you’re hung up on my name?”

“I dunno.” James shrugs. “It fits, or whatever.”

Brett. Brett and Aleks. They fit.

He likes how _Brett_ tastes on his tongue. He wonders if _Aleks_ would be as sweet.

“I’m glad my name fits,” _Brett_ laughs.

“Do you think Immortal would get mad if I called you that?”

“Nah,” _Brett_ shrugs, “Whatever. It was bound to happen anyway. Tattoos _and_ my name? He’s gonna be fuckin’ _green_.”

“Shut up,” James says automatically, and stands to go get the water bottle from earlier. It’s rolled under the table so he crouches to grab it and toss it into the trash before he turns back around to see Brett on the phone.

“Hi, honey,” Brett says with sweetness so startlingly thick James can almost see it dripping from his tongue. “No, no one is dead.”

James finds himself smiling behind his new bottle of water, just imagining the face Immortal must have pulled when he heard Brett’s greeting.

“Well, see, we’ve got good news and bad news. Bad news first, I was still kind of around when the cops showed up so I pretended to be James’ boyfriend and chased ‘em off after about an hour and they got my name,” Hundar says in a rush. “ _Good_ \- no, wait, let me finish, _good_ news; I saw his tattoos and also he’s calling me by my name now, so.”

Brett rocks on his heels again, one hand in his pocket while he holds his phone to his ear. From across the studio, James can only hear a tinny echo of a voice, impossible to make out from where he stands. Whatever is being said, Brett doesn’t look too worried.

“No, we’re fine. He stuck to the party line. Didn’t give ‘em nothin’. You’re a bitch from Manhattan, by the way… did you - your hair? Yeah. All the way, right? Good. No, he - shut up, no, he doesn’t. Did you-” Brett blinks, and James swears that his cheeks go a faint pink. “You didn’t _tell me_ \- shut up. Ugh. Fuck you. Fine.” Hundar sighs deeply and holds the phone out to James. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” James frowns, finishes his bottle and goes to Brett to take the phone and hold it to his own ear. “Hello?”

“Are you okay?” Immortal says on top of his greeting.

“I’m alright.” James blinks, feels his belly warming. “Yeah, I’m okay. Hund - Brett. Brett was with me the whole time so.”

“That’s bullshit,” Immortal says, “First, that they ambushed you at home like fuckin’ assholes without a lawyer present with that motherfucker Shawcross throwing accusations all over the bullpen-”

“Do you have an _insider_?” James demands. “Are you getting tipped off, dude?”

“ _Second_ ,” Immortal says over him, “that’s so fucking unfair? He saw your _sleeves_? Tell him you knew my name first.”

“If by _saw my sleeves_ , you mean _peeked while I was changing my shirt_ , then yeah, he totally saw my sleeves,” James suddenly understands why Brett has the best _so fuckin’ done_ expression so nailed down. “And? I have no idea what you’re talking about, how did I know your name first?”

“I am trying to win a fight with my husband, angelcakes, now is not the time to pretend you were asleep. We all know you heard him.”

“ _Immortal_!”

“Just say it,” Immortal wheedles, drops his voice low. “Just say it, I won’t even bring up how you learned it. Come on, angel, do it for me.”

“Are you-” James looks around for a place to sit, suddenly dizzy with heat and embarrassment. Brett is watching him, confused and vaguely amused, which seems to be his default expression when dealing with any interactions between James and his husband. “Are you fuckin’ - I just had a panic attack about the cops puttin’ all three of us in prison for - for - and you-”

“Angel,” Immortal purrs. “Come on, please? You did real good with the cops, I’ll definitely thank you for that when I get to see you again. I gotta leave you with Brett for now, but I wanna hear you say it if you say his name, too.”

“Immortal-”

“Ah,” Immortal interrupts, and it’s kind of like how James tells Ein that she’s not doing what he’s asking her to do without actually saying the words. That should piss him off, and it kind of does, but mostly it just makes him hot. That’s the fucking tone he was talking to Brett with, when James was supposed to be sleeping.

“Where are you right now?” James looks at his feet, knows his face must be a tomato by now, that Brett must have picked up on _something_ about the conversation.

“Boring meet up with some dudes you don’t need to know about,” Immortal says dismissively. “They aren’t important. Come on, angelcakes, just say it one time for me.”

“Why am I supposed to say _your_ name when you won’t even say mine?” James demands, furrows his brows because he can hear Brett coming closer and he’s fucking _embarrassed_. Immortal’s never told him his name. The only way James has ever heard it is from Brett’s mouth, in that begging - that _whine_ \- or from his own mouth in his own moment of weakness in the broom closet.

He suppresses a shudder.

“What's wrong with _angel_?” Immortal whines and James can hear the pout in his voice.

“You have literally never called me anything but that dumbass nickname since we _met_ , Immortal.”

He sighs, their connection giving it an almost static filter, but his voice is darker, more smug when he says “Is that what you want? We making another deal?”

“...yeah,” James decides, because he can’t resist.

He wants to hear Immortal say his name. Brett’s said it a few times, and it’s nice; it makes him feel - something. He wants that from Immortal, too. He’ll admit that he knows Immortal’s name, as long as he promises not to bring up why he knows it and says his own in return.

“I can do that,” Immortal agrees. “I like deals.”

“Because you’re Satan,” James grumbles and Immortal laughs, loud and pleased.

“Oh, angel, if I could tempt you, I’d take his seat happily.”

James sighs loudly, glances at Brett’s raised eyebrow and then back at his feet.

“You first,” he decides. “You fuckin’ twist my words all the time, so you first.”

He thinks Immortal is going to tease him some more. He never lets James just live his goddamn life, he’s always poking and prodding and teasing and pushing, never just -

“James,” Aleks says, and James closes his eyes. It’s like Aleks rolls the word around before he lets it go, dark and promising and totally different from how Brett says it, but not less pleasing.

“Aleks,” he says back, barely a whisper, and he hears Aleks’ breath hitch.

“Say it again, but like, the full name,” Aleks insists and James gives Brett an exasperated look. Brett just smirks at him, shrugs in a _it can’t be helped_ sort of way.

“Aleksandr?” he offers and Aleks makes a pleased, low noise.

“Yeah,” Aleks says, “yeah, okay. I can’t - Brett told you we’re coming to yours for New Years, right?”

“Yeah, about that.” James clears his throat loudly, glad to be back on familiar ground. “I won’t be _home_ , asshole, there’s no _point_ -”

“Be home,” Aleks says, and it sounds kind of like an order and a request all at once, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Cheap champagne isn’t a surprise, Aleks.”

“Oh, keep saying it,” Aleks sighs like he’s settling into a hot bath, but keeps going before James can snap at him. “And _no_ , despite what my traitorous bitch of a husband has squealed about, it’s more than _perfectly acceptable_ champagne bought for a _perfectly acceptable_ price.”

“But,” James says, realizing that he’s losing the battle, “I have _Mass_.”

“It’s a - one’a those days where you gotta go to Mass, right? An, uh, fuckin’ - Brett!”

James flinches away from the phone and, with a shake of his head, puts it on speaker so Brett can respond.

“Babe,” Aleks says. “What’re the days that you have to go to fuckin’ church even though it’s not a Sunday?”

“Days of Obligation,” Brett says - James mouths it along with him and they share a look. It feels like they’ve been doing that a lot lately.

“Yeah, well, I did my fuckin’ research, angelcakes,” Aleks says firmly. “And you can go to a _Vigil Mass_ for your obligation days or whatever. So you go to that night one, and then you come home and you party the last hours of the year out with us, and then you sleep through morning Mass and tell your bishop that you decided you needed to spend the day in fuckin’ solitary prayer at home after the crazy end of the year you’ve had.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” James grumbles, but he already knows he’s lost. They’re _gonna_ be at his apartment, whether he agrees or not, and they’re gonna somehow convince him to partake of the _perfectly reasonably_ priced alcohol and he’s gonna have to either tell the bishop that night that he’s taking the morrow for solitary prayer or he’s going to go to Mass hungover and probably sleepless.

“I know what I want,” Aleks says. “I gotta go. I _told_ you, babe.”

“Shut the actual fuck up,” Brett groans and hangs up on him.

The silence that follows the phone call isn’t particularly long or awkward, but it makes James’ chest feel tight anyway.

“Today is a lot.” he finally says, because it is. His off days seem to always be a lot these days. The last one, he’d trekked to their apartment to give them information he’d collected for their nefarious purposes. This one, he’d lied to the police and been forced into making New Years plans. He wishes he’d wished on that lash after all. He would have wished that his next day off was calm.

“Yeah,” Brett agrees. “Wanna, I dunno. Watch some TV? I think there’s still some beer in your fridge. I can order pizza.”

“That sounds pretty good.” James admits, “But at some point you’re going to have to stop feeding me.”

“Go pick a movie.” Brett says instead of answering and James just shakes his head and goes to pick a movie while Brett orders pizza.

-

“Of course,” the bishop says gently, clasping James’ hands in his, “Of course, James. You’ve been through so much, and I can see the weight of it in your eyes.”

James glances up at him and then back at their hands, where wrinkled, warm digits cradle his in a comforting grip. It nearly makes him change his mind, but he’s had three days to think about this and he knows that Aleks is going to get his way in the end. He’d rather the bishop not _know_ he was too hungover to go to morning Mass instead of just assuming he was spending his New Years Day in solitary prayer at home.

And he will, when he wakes up and manages to kick them out of his apartment.

He leaves the church later than he would have usually, staying as late as the last congregate to make up for his skipping out tomorrow, but he makes it home well before eleven.

He can hear parties on every floor of his building all the way up to his, where things are no quieter. There’s laughter from at least three doors as he makes his way to his own, keys out but pretty sure he won’t need them.

He’s right, of course. His door is unlocked, and he walks in to find Brett and Aleks awkwardly waltzing around the room, an open bottle of champagne clasped between their hands and a happy flush to their cheeks.

“James!” Aleks says from where Brett’s dipped him, “You’re finally here!”

“I see you two got started without me,” James can’t help but smile, still tired from the busy day but somehow okay with staying up later to hang out, maybe drink a few glasses and watch the ball drop on TV.

“We were gonna wait,” Brett says seriously, “But Aleks decided he needed to test the quality,”

“There’s plenty left,” Aleks scoffs and makes a _whoosh_ sound when Brett pulls him up from the dip, “I’ll pour you a glass.”

“That’s okay,” James starts to decline, but Aleks is already picking up one of the pretty flutes on his table and pouring the bottle until the fizzle reaches the top. Aleks holds it out proudly and James shakes his head but goes to collect it from him.

Ein trots on over to his feet, yapping and barking with excited little wiggles that shake her whole body, a cute bow with ‘2018’ printed on it wrapped around her collar and the remains of something messy around her mouth.

“What have you two heathens given my dog,” James tries to frown, but just has to hide the smile behind the flute. It’s not bad. Not the _best_ but - perfectly reasonable. He takes another sip.

“Healthy wet dog food,” Brett assures him at the same time that Aleks says, “A really fuckin’ cool New Years cake for dogs.”

James...almost wishes that they’d waited for that, if only so he could have seen it for himself, but it makes him happy that Ein is so happy and the champagne is good, bubbly on his tongue and sweet when he swallows.

“So what was this surprise,” he asks, watching curiously as Aleks takes a drink directly from the bottle, full flute in the other hand.

“Ah-ah,” Aleks smirks, “That’s for _after_ the ball drops.”

They’ve got the program on his TV, if muted. He thinks he vaguely recognizes the performer on stage, but he’s got Aleks and Brett tipsy in his apartment again -- both of them this time - and he decides pretty quick that he’d rather join in than fight the wave. He downs the rest of his flute and holds it out.

“It’s rude to force someone to party with you and then not even wait for them,” he admonishes them both and likes the way that Brett smiles at him for it, loose and relaxed.

“I tried to stop him.” Brett defends himself and pours him another glass.

“Sure,” James says with no small amount of disbelief, “I totally believe you.”

Aleks laughs at that and it kind of devolves from there. James has an hour and a half to catch up to them before midnight and he hasn’t partied much since his NOVA days but damned if he doesn’t at least try to revive that spirit. Aleks stocked his fridge up with champagne, a few beers that Brett switches to within half an hour of James getting home, and he smashes through like three cans before James has even reached the end of the bottle. Still, Brett’s got about fifty pounds of muscle on him and he hasn’t actually had this much to drink in...four or five years.

His tolerance level is no match for the champagne or the rich chocolate candies Immortal produces, bitter in a way that makes the champagne all the sweeter. He’s not exactly _plastered_ but he does know that between one flute and the next he’s sitting on one side of the couch with Brett on the other and Aleks stretched out on their laps, feet under James’ arms and head on Brett’s shoulder. He’s got their current champagne bottle clasped in his fist and he passes it back and forth with James while Brett nurses his fourth beer and runs a thoughtless hand up and down Aleks’ leg. The program’s still on mute, because they’re still mumbling a quiet conversation between the three of them that hasn’t stopped since James had started drinking an hour ago.

“‘M tellin’ you,” Aleks shakes the bottle at him and James relieves him of it’s burden to drain the last of it and set it on the ground with the other one, “‘m _tellin_ ’ you both,” he stops, “I can’t remember what I was tellin’ you.”

“That Christmas trees should be bought in November and kept until January,” James offers.

“Regardless of rot or decay,” Brett adds on, and Aleks nods.

“Exactly.” He says emphatically, “ _Exactly_. I married the right man. Jesus,” he flops back into Brett’s chest, who catches him easily with barely a grunt. James watches them, feels the smallest twinge of envy.

“He gets,” Brett looks at James, eyes just a little fuzzy, that flush on his cheeks from earlier having risen to a bit of a darker red by this point, “After about a bottle in, he gets all -”

“I just love you,” Aleks announces to the room, and then cups Brett’s face and turns it to his so he can plaster sloppy kisses all over him. James can’t exactly see _where_ the kisses are landing, but he’s drunk enough to admit that he wishes he was getting them, too.

“I love you, too,” Brett says quietly, catches Aleks’ hands in his and pulls them from his face so he can kinda just hold them instead. Aleks grins at him, so wide that his eyes crinkle up. He looks - like in his wedding picture, despite the newly bleached hair. It’s white-blond now, all the way down to the roots, and it’s grown out in the month since he’d been spotted by the still-unnamed third witness. James nearly reaches for it and only stops when he feels his fingers twitch and remembers why that’s a bad idea.

He wants to throw rice on them, this scruffy Brett with the mostly shaven face and this crinkly-eyed blond Aleks, take a new picture and compare. He knows they’d look just as happy together, if not happier. It would be a cute comparison, new lines and harder faces but that same soft fondness in Brett’s eyes and untamed joy in Aleks’ smile. Sometimes, when he looks at them like this, it's so easy to forget who and what they are.

He lets them have their moment, envy gone and replaced with something warm and soft, like a happiness for their happiness. He wants them to kiss him, wants them to pull him between them, and he can admit that under the influence of champagne and chocolate and whatever high he’s getting off of being with them in similar states, but he doesn’t mind that they _aren’t_ doing that either. He’s the third wheel, for all that they’re flirting. A fun fling with the choir boy they invite into their bed for a night or two, and then it’s back to their happily married lives. But James would be fucked up - broken vows and guilty soul and all the gross things he’s not supposed to be thinking about while he’s drunk and feeding bits of pulled pork from the appetizer tray they’d brought over to feast on before the countdown to his dog.

He’s the one that sees the ‘10’ on the countdown board, taps at Aleks’ exposed ankle to get his attention even though he kind of just wants to tilt his head back and drift to sleep.

“Nine,” Aleks echos, and the excitement in his little studio isn’t much, but it’s enough to get him to open his eyes again from where they’d slipped closed.

Brett joins in, soft, at _eight_ , and Aleks nudges at James until he finally chimes in at _five_.

The final four counts leading to the ball dropping are a quiet affair; the three of them and their empty champagne bottles and beer cans, their half eaten appetizer tray and James’ uncomfortable couch and rickety coffee table managing to hold up both his feet and Brett’s, Ein snoring softly underneath. When the ball drops, he watches out of the corner of his eye as they kiss, Brett leaning down and Aleks nearly tilting himself off the couch in his enthusiasm. James holds onto his legs so he doesn’t fall and Aleks giggles drunkenly between one kiss and the next. James can see Brett’s smile even from his vantage point, looking just as blissed out as Aleks.

The pang in his belly is so strong that he has to close his eyes again.

He can’t open them until he feels a hand on his over Aleks’ legs, now-familiar sweaty palms catching his attention so that he’ll look at their owner.

Aleks’ eyes are dark and intense when he meets them, as serious as a drunk guy can look.

“Angel,” he says, sugar-soft, “Angel, I wanna kiss you so bad. Can I kiss you?”

James blinks at him, looks between he and Brett, who just raises an eyebrow back at him, a challenge in his eyes that James wants to rise to and shrink from all at once.

“I,” he starts, “I can’t - I’m _celibate_ -” and it’s almost begging because if Aleks pushes, if he pushes even an ounce, James won’t be celibate anymore.

“No sex,” Aleks promises, twisting his hand until he can tangle their fingers together, “Just a kiss. One little kiss. Can I, angel?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Let me kiss you, James.” Aleks reaches for him with his other hand, fingertips barely able to touch his face until James, almost reluctantly, moves so he can kind of crawl closer. Aleks moves his legs easily, twists his body until James has the room to get on his knees on the couch and lean over. Aleks spreads his legs so James can lean over him and it's so intimate, like the table but reversed, his thighs pressed warm to Aleks’ and Aleks’ skin soft. Aleks’ fingertips guide him, so soft, so gentle as he has James tilt his head so he can lean up and touch their lips together.

It’s not electric shocks or a kick to the gut, but it makes him gasp all the same. It’s the first kiss he’s had in years, the first time he’s _wanted_ so badly in even longer. Aleks cards his fingertips along James’ cheek, his jaw, his hair, works their mouths together until he has James’ bottom lip between his, can suck lightly before letting go. He doesn’t have to physically grab James’ face to have him frozen in place, prey to whatever he wants to do. When his tongue asks for permission, James gives it and returns the attention with equal fervour, almost rocking into him with his sudden desire to kiss him harder, get closer, feel his body heat against his shiver-cold skin.

Aleks lets him get closer, moves from fingertips to his palm on James’ jaw, holding him in place so he can kiss him. A warm, big hand settles on the back of James’ neck and he knows it’s Brett almost instinctively and it makes him shiver, makes him sigh out a pleased, quiet moan.

It’s over not quite as quick as an instant, but not too much longer, either. His lips are wet, the taste of champagne and chocolate and _Aleks_ still on his tongue. He blinks open his eyes, dizzy, and it’s to Aleks’ smug fucking face, that shark smile that had scared James at first but now just makes him shiver all over again.

“Not very fair to let me have all the fun,” Aleks hums, still that low, quiet voice that James is pretty sure can make him do anything. When his palm guides James’ face up so that he and Brett are closer, James doesn’t resist. If the thought of kissing Aleks is like drowning, the thought of kissing Brett is kind of like standing in the middle of a rocky plain and knowing that you’re on the most solid ground you’re ever going to find.

“Is this okay?” Brett asks, his own rough palm replacing Aleks’. They have such different kinds of hands - Aleks’ sweaty and calloused like a musician while Brett’s are dry and rough like he uses them a lot for work.

James can’t talk, his lungs barely able to keep him breathing, let alone talking, so he nods carefully and meets Brett in the middle when he leans in to kiss him.

They aren’t complements of each other in this way. Aleks _takes_ , and Brett does, too, if in a different way. He doesn’t so much ask permission to James’ mouth as he teases it out of him, flicks of tongue, the smallest suction to his bottom lip, nipping teeth that finally get James to chase him. James doesn’t have the hands to both balance _and_ grip Brett by the hair and just _hold him still_ so James can get exactly what he wants, but there’s a heady few seconds where he’s ready to risk the fall if only to get his hands in his hair and drag their jaws together, contrast his short beard to the fuzz just growing in on Brett’s jaw again.

But this kiss, too, is over before James wants it to be. He blinks slowly, looking at Brett with what must be a put-out expression because he cracks a grin and presses a more chaste kiss to his forehead.

“Just a kiss, remember? We promised.”

“Yeah,” James says, but isn’t happy about it.

“Don't worry, sweetheart,” Brett swipes a thumb under his eye, “If you want to kiss me again, all you have to do is ask.”

“Ask me.” Aleks speaks up, and James can feel his breath on his neck, the ghost of hot lips along his shoulder.

“I can’t,” James tilts his head to give him more room, tone desperate, “I can’t, Aleks, I’m -”

“I know,” Aleks agrees, strokes a hand along his side, “I know, angel, I know. Don’t worry. We won’t deflower you until you ask. Promise.”

“You make me a lot of promises,” James points out, just barely stopping himself from whining when the hand cupping his face drops away. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to let this hazy, sweet moment end.

“And I keep every one of them, don’t I?” Aleks nudges him and then keeps doing it until he’s sitting on the couch again, eyes still closed. Brett’s sitting so close to him that they’re practically on the same seat, thighs pressed close together, one arm over the back of the couch and James’ shoulders. He leans into him a little, the position familiar after almost an hour of it a few days ago, and Brett welcomes it like it’s what he’d wanted all along.

He feels Aleks get up, “To get your present,” and that gets him perked up, wondering what could be so important that they wanted to wait until after the new year before he receives it.

“Okay,” Aleks says, whisper soft, and James hears the creak of the coffee table, knows Aleks must be sitting on it now. “Open.”

James flutters his eyes open, looks at Aleks and then at Brett and then down at Aleks’ hand.

Resting in his palm is an intricately carved wooden cross, beads swirling with colors of the rainbow from the brightest red he’s ever seen connecting the cross to an oval with a depiction of two angel wings, from which beads the richest orange he’s sure is possible slowly fade into corresponding colors on each side all the way to a dark indigo pair next to each other. It takes him a few seconds, automatically counting the beads as he carefully takes it from Aleks’ hands.

“It’s…thank you,” he says, choked up.

It’s a rosary.

“Kiss me again,” he asks, and they do.


	5. Confess my love, I'd know where to be (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK U TO KAY (CIBMATA) FOR BEING THE BEST BETA AND GOING HARDCORE ON THIS FUCKING CHAPTER YOURE THE BEST
> 
> ALSO THANK U TO ALL OF MY FRIENDS, I WOULD BE EVEN MORE AWFUL WITHOUT U <3
> 
> I HOPE U ENJOY GUYS!!!

It’s guilt that makes James agree. 

At this point in his life, he should be used to the crushing guilt that’s always there, always close to crashing down on him. He should be able to control his urge by now to atone despite his time in the confessional before he’d joined the seminary. 

Somewhere between Philly and LS, there’s a priest that knows everything he’d ever done up to that point and had forgiven him, but goddamn if he hadn’t agreed without an ounce of hesitation when the Bishop asked him to organize the clothing drive. 

“Look,” he says, phone between his ear and shoulder so he has both hands free. He’s filling out a form with one hand and using his other hand to keep his place on his budget paper, copying numbers from one form to the other. “This is my job, man. I told you it would be after the new year.”

“You’ve been working on this stupid clothes shit for forever! How are you supposed to go looking if you’re only at the damn church four hours a week?!”

James sighs. His eyes ache, lids heavy. This is the third call in as many days about not fulfilling his side of the bargain. He’s working out of the shelter until the drive finishes up, sort of a coordinator and floor director all at once.

“Listen. I _promise_ you, I will find it. I just need to do this shit first. I’m basically running this whole thing alone, it’s gonna be a little weird if I start stalking His Excellency instead of calling schools and picking up donations all day.”

“Are you _avoiding_ us?”

James’ face flushes. He nearly hangs up right then and there, annoyance and embarrassment welling up to make his voice crack when he snaps, “why would I be avoiding you, Aleksandr?”

“...I don’t like that you’re taking advantage of that,” Aleks says and James can hear the pout. “You’re too powerful now, angel. It’s not fair.”

James stops writing, tongue-tied. 

“I - shut up. God, you just - shut up.”

“ _Angelcakes_ ,” Aleks whines, and then there’s a scuffle and James waits patiently, now used to this. When he hears a voice again, it’s Brett’s.

“How much longer is this thing?”

James hesitates, considering. “Maybe another couple days? I pick up the last donations tomorrow and the day after, and then me ‘n’ a couple’a volunteers load it all up to be taken to our affiliated shelter. It was a pretty successful drive, so it might take another day or two to get all of that set up.”

“When you say _a couple_ , how many volunteers do you have, exactly?”

“Two.” James taps his pen on his desk, “Or, well. Two at a time. They all take shifts because, you know, jobs and family and shit. I have to be there to oversee everything, though. Can you guys just chill out for a couple more damn days?”

“ _I’m_ fine with waiting,” Brett says. “It’s just that Aleks wanted to talk to you. He missed you.”

“Don’t - don’t fuckin’ tell him I missed him, I don’t fuckin’-” James hears Aleks in the background, loud and indignant. 

“Okay, well, apparently, he _didn’t_ want to talk to you so we’ll let you do your stupid charity work.”

James bites his lip, trying not to let himself smile. He doesn’t like that they can be so annoying but endearing at the same time.

“Gee, thanks for letting me do my real person job. Try shaking someone else down for a change, it might relieve the boredom.”

“Thanks for the advice, deacon,” Brett says drolly and they're biting words but there's nothing in his tone to actually make them hurt. They just make James lose the battle with his smile. 

“I'm hanging up. Don’t call me, I'll call you.”

“You're lucky we like your dog so much,” Brett warns. “Aleks might not miss you but she does.”

“Stop guilting me.” James pokes at his paper with the tip of his pen. “I’m doin’ my best here.”

He hears Brett laugh, hears Aleks mutter something in the background, a muffled _bye, angel_ , and then the line goes dead.

He takes a second to shake his head, sighs into the quiet of his tiny, dim office, and then he puts the phone down and goes back to work.

He's lost his place on the budget and has to restart.

-

James gets home late, like he’s been getting home for the last good few days. 

No one is waiting for him, but there's a wrapped sandwich from Subway on his table and Ein is splayed out and sleeping so deeply on the couch that she doesn’t even wake up to greet him.

Part of him is disappointed, but more of him is relieved to shed the cassock and crawl into bed unhindered. 

Like it had every night since New Year's, closing his eyes brings the image of Aleks’ face when James had asked him to kiss him again. Eyes soft with drink and grin dark and pleased. He tries to push it away, but Brett’s smug smile replaces it, bristly hair over a sharp jaw that begged for James to touch.

And he _had_ touched, tipsy on good champagne and better company, on the memory of Brett’s whine and Aleks’ soft sound when James had said his name. Brett had let him cradle his jaw, pull him closer, and Aleks had stroked through his hair. He’d tilted James’ face to the side so he could kiss him again too, taste him, and James can still remember that sweet champagne on Aleks’ tongue, can still remember the soft sounds, quiet moans from them both before Aleks had put a stop to it.

That, maybe, is what’s making James remember and feel it so deeply even so many days - well over a week - since. That they’d listened to him, hadn't taken it too far. He wasn't going to start handing gold medals out for not taking advantage of him when he was drunk like respecting his consent was an achievement, but…

But he could distinctly remember the last kiss, slow and soft, James sleepy and listing mostly into Brett’s chest, Aleks’ hands laced around one of his and playing with his fingers as he kissed him. Remember the way Aleks had smiled - not his shark grin or like anything James had really seen before, but something softer that made the bubbly in his stomach foam. 

“That’s enough, I think,” he’d said and that had been that, even when James had sleepily tried to kiss him again. His rejection had been gentle, a quiet, “ask me again later,” and James had nodded against Brett’s shoulder and fallen asleep.

They’d been gone when he’d woken up, tucked into his own bed and apartment mostly clean. They’d left him all the beer cans and the champagne bottles again, though, like they were allergic to throwing alcohol out.

His new rosary had been laid on his bedside table with a scrap of paper that just had a doodled heart on it. 

It’s there now, where he places it carefully every night after work, now. It’s not the same as his last, which had been a gift from his grandmother and one he still hopes to one day have returned to him, but every time he looks at it, it reminds him of them.

He sends a text to the number he’s saved for them under a skull emoji that just says _thanks_ , another one added to the hundreds that had somehow already accumulated, and the rosary is the last thing he sees before he sleeps.

When he wakes up, there’s a response; it’s just a heart.

-

“I’m just saying, we can _help_ ,” Aleks says through the phone. “Get it done faster. If it’s done in one day, you’re back to the church the next day, right?”

“I mean, maybe? I would get done organizing things at the shelter faster if it was all unloaded in one day, but it would still only be a Friday. He wouldn’t even be around on a Friday, let alone taking donations to and fuckin’ fro.”

“You can never be too careful,” Aleks sniffs and James near glowers at the truck’s steering wheel. He’s supposed to be driving to a school thirty minutes away. Instead, he’s sitting in a hot truck owned by the church in the shelter parking lot, arguing with Aleks. 

“Do you realize that you’re wanted by the police for murder?” he hisses. “The murder of a priest that was a _part of this church_? No, you _can’t_ volunteer with us, are you trying to get recognized? We still don’t know who the third witness is, what if they see you?! You bleached your hair, Aleks, you didn’t get goddamn facial reconstruction surgery.”

“We’re volunteering because we want to give back to the community,” Aleks insists. “For real, angel, we’re both big on, like, volunteering and shit. You know. Doing good. Atoning or something, I dunno, just let us help you unload the goddamn truck so you can get back to your regularly scheduled church time, for fuck’s sake.”

“Is this, like-” James furrows his brows, irritation biting at his tone. “Are you, like, doubting me? Is that what’s going on here, you think I’m, what, going back on our deal or something?”

“No, angel, come on-”

“I am doing my _fucking_ best here, Immortal,” James snaps over him. “I have a job and I need to do it if you want me anywhere near that fucking church. I told you I’d find it and I told you I’d do it as quick as possible and I meant it when I said _as possible_ because it’s _not_ possible right now or I’d be _looking_!”

“James,” Aleks starts, but James just - is done at the moment. He’s tired, stressed and, honestly, kind of hurt that Aleks is acting like _James_ had done anything to inspire doubt. He’s lied to the police, he’s betraying his church and fuckin’ - fuckin’ forgiven them for _holding him at gunpoint_ , he’d _kissed them_ -

“I have to go, I’ll be back at the church by next week,” he says, then hangs up before Aleks can answer.

He puts his phone on silent, shoves it in his pocket, and drives. He’s not wearing his cassock because trying to do any sort of actual work in a long skirt and sleeves is impossible, so he rolls the windows down and his sleeves up and lets the wind whipping past as he drives cool his skin against the Los Santos heat.

He’s calmer by the time he reaches the school, and he feels guilty but not guilty enough to do anything except check his phone to make sure he hasn’t missed anything work-related. There’s a text from the skull but nothing from work so he stuffs it in his pocket and gets out of the truck to track down the teacher in charge of collecting for the school.

He has a couple more stops to make after he finds the teacher and she and her class help him load their clothing collections into the truck, and he makes himself focus on them - on socializing with the principals and teachers he meets, introducing himself so that they’ll recognize his name and the church next time they’re looking for sponsors or donors to events.

He should feel proud. For a drive that has only been going on for a couple weeks, it has been a really successful collection. The shelter will probably have enough stock for at least a couple more months helping families or people in need of better clothes. And _he_ had done that; this whole thing had been his project. Long nights making schedules, pimping it out on every social media channel he had the login to, calling schools and other churches and clothing stores to get them involved or get donations, he’d done nearly all of it on his own.

And he _does_ feel proud, though it was tempered by how annoying Aleks has been about him not being at the church. It’s just...not that he would admit it to anyone but himself, even with how fucking dickish Aleks is being, but James has…

Well. 

Either way, he should be proud, damn it, and he is. 

Proud enough that he opens the next text he gets from the skull. The first is just a _:( - a_ , and the second a _call when ur free - b_.

It was sent only a few minutes earlier so, high on indignation, James hits the call button and tucks himself down into the seat of the truck. The night is cool now, the sounds of the city quiet through the cracked windows of the cab. The back is full of clothes, covered in tarp in case of a surprise rainstorm, and he’s got the time to waste while he waits around for the shelter’s janitor to unlock the loading door in half an hour. He’ll move some of it inside tonight and get that sorted, once he’s given Brett a piece of his mind, too.

The call rings through for a few seconds, twice, before he hears the click of his call being taken, the sudden, the mumble of conversation and music playing in the background.

“Are you gonna tell me I’m trying to weasel out, too?” James grumbles, kicking his legs up along the seat and crossing his ankles. The bottoms of his feet just touch the other door and he presses the toes of his sneakers into the plastic. 

“He can come off as an ass,” Brett sighs. “But he didn’t mean it like that. I promise, sweetheart, we know what you’re doing for us.”

“...I guess I was...” James droops. “A little testy.”

“Judging by how deeply he’s hiding his face in his beer, he probably wasn’t being very understanding.”

“He wanted to come… help, I think?” James twists the toe of his shoe against the door panel, trying to hook the door handle with it. “But I told him he was an idiot. We don’t know who the third witness is yet, what if you’re _recognized_.”

“And he wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Brett finishes for him, vaguely amused.

“I don't need to be _babysat_ ,” James grumbles. “I'll get back to the church when I can.” 

“I know,” Brett soothes. “Listen, he didn't mean he wanted you back at the church just to keep looking, sweetheart. He was talking about getting the drive over with so you’d go back to your regular hours.”

“My regular-” James sits up a little. “That’s stupid. I’m fine. I’m not really working any harder than usual, I’m just at a different location for now.”

He hears Brett huff, more amused than annoyed.

“James,” Brett says. “He - we _both_ want you to go back to your regular hours so we can actually see you instead of just leaving food on your table and taking your dog out. Texting is fun and all, but I kind of want to see your face sometimes, too.” 

James blinks. Blinks again, feels his face heating up even as he looks around like someone might be listening. 

“I - that’s-” He stutters, chest tight. “That’s, I mean. He could have… he could have just said that, or whatever.”

“Like I said,” Brett agrees, “he can come off like kind of an ass. We just, uh-” And here, Brett finally sounds a little flustered himself. “We want to see you again. We haven’t really met up since…”

Since New Years. Since they’d kissed. 

James finds himself nodding slowly, knowing Brett can’t see it. “I guess I… wouldn’t mind seeing you guys again.”

“Where are you right now?” Brett asks, sounding pleased, and James ignores how pleased that makes _him_. Instead, he clears his throat and pulls his legs back, sits up right in the truck.

“Waiting for the janitor to open the shelter’s loading door. I’m gonna unload a couple boxes tonight, get ahead of the game.”

“You alone?”

“Mostly.” James taps at his wheel. “Just me and the janitor, I think.”

“So, maybe...” Brett’s voice lilts, like he’s trying to sweeten some sort of deal. “You tell me where this shelter is and Aleks and I can stop by and help out a little tonight. No one will see us, we’ll get you out of there faster, and then we can go back to harassing you in the privacy of your apartment. Sound good?”

James can’t say it doesn’t. He _wants_ to see them, as much as he doesn’t want to admit that.

“...fine,” he finally gives in. “But, seriously, if more than the janitor shows up, you two need to go. And no funny business, hands to your fucking self, _Aleks_.” He raises his voice, knowing that Aleks is listening, and he hears Aleks’ voice in the background making offended sounds while Brett laughs.

“I think we can manage,” Brett allows. “Text me the address, okay? We’ll be there. Aleks is kinda boozed up but I’d be more help without him than with him, anyway.”

Aleks is still making those offended noises, louder now, and James finds himself smiling before he even realizes he’s doing it. 

“Yeah, okay.” He hesitates, trying to put his thoughts into words. Is it weird to thank them? They’re not exactly coming for altruistic reasons. But they _are_ coming, and he finds that he’s excited about it. “I’ll, uh. See you soon.”

“You will,” Brett agrees, and it’s a promise. 

James hangs up with a faint, “okay, bye,” and texts them the address just as the janitor finally gets the loading door door open for him. 

From there, he kind of forgets - as much as he can, anyway - in the hubbub of backing the truck through the loading door, getting the tarp off and setting up the ramp to make sliding big, heavy boxes off easier. 

“You sure you can do this alone?” the janitor asks, a spindly older woman with a shock of white hair who looks like she might be more in need of a rest than volunteer work, so James just smiles at her as nicely as he can.

“I’ve got some… friends stopping by to help me get started, but thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to lock up. Midnight, right?”

“That’s when I gotta kick you out,” she nods, vaguely apologetic, but he understands. She’s gotta lock up after him and all, he’d be pissed if some asshole with a truck showed up and made him wait around to go home so he could put some clothes away. 

“Thanks, ma’am.” He shakes her hand, his best eastern twang in the words, and she gives him an amused sort of look before disappearing back into the shelter. There are dozens of people sleeping in the main building, but James will have the small ‘shop’ area where they keep non-perishables and non-food items to himself for the next couple hours. He needs to set up the racks and hangers and get his little piece of the room in order before he even touches the boxes, so he stops trying to keep half an ear open for the sounds of an approaching bike or familiar sports car and gets to work.

He must be in the storage closet when they make their appearance because he leaves an empty room and returns to two figures leaning against the truck, sharing a cigarette just outside of shelter shop. 

“You came,” he finds himself saying, blinking around the armload of hangers he’s got jamming into every part of him they can reach. 

“I told you we would,” Brett says around the cigarette, hunched against the breeze to keep the cherry red. 

“Having trouble?” Aleks asks, looking him over.

“No,” James snaps as three hangers slip from the pile. One nearly stabs his eye out as it goes and he jerks back and loses a couple more to the movement, “I'm _fine_.”

“I mean...” Aleks winces when Brett nudges him. “Can I help you with anything?”

James narrows his eyes and looks between them both, surrounded by hangers and empty racks. 

“...if you _want_ ,” James relents, “you can help me hang these up. Then I need to start sorting so if you want to just bring me boxes, you can hang out while I sort.”

“I can do you one better.” Aleks comes over to pick up the hangers on the floor, picks most of the hangers out of his arms carefully and with a lot more organization until James only has a few left and can get them in order on his own. “Brett can bring the boxes and I’ll help you sort. We’ll get done even faster.”

“Stop rushing.” James frowns at him. “It’ll be finished when it’s finished.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aleks waves him off, kind of awkwardly since his arms are full of hangers. “Whatever. I get it.”

“Uh-huh,” James hums doubtfully. Still, he helps him get the empty hangers on the racks, and doesn’t pull away when Aleks’ hands brush against his. 

It’s not exactly the most romantic moment - James trying to unload all of the hangers from Aleks’ hands so he can have them back, and Aleks tangling their fingers together instead. 

“Hands to yourself,” James reminds him, glaring at their linked fingers. 

“Look at me, angel.” Aleks ducks his head to meet James’ eyes, catches his gaze and traps it like he always fucking does.

“You’re not sticking to the deal,” James accuses. “You’re supposed to be _helping_.”

“This first.” Aleks squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry I was a dick.”

James swallows, finds that he’s not breathing much, with Aleks so close and the warm air between them stealing everything from his lungs.

“I didn’t think apologies were something loan sharks did.”

“It’s something _I_ do.” Aleks shrugs. “But, uh. Only for a special few.”

James takes that, juggles it in his head, lets it warm his blood. 

“You could say I overreacted, if you looked at it from another angle,” James admits, inhales sharply when Aleks brings his other hand up to brush his knuckles against his jaw. 

“It’s just boring when we’re not bothering you.” Aleks smiles, a twitch of his lips, and James exhales. 

“It’s not boring to not be bothered,” he says, and knows Aleks sees right through it.

“Can I…?” Aleks tilts his head closer. “Just once?”

James nods - just once - and Aleks leans forward. He touches a light kiss to the corner of James’ mouth and James frowns, embarrassment and disappointment flip-flopping for which wanted to consume him as he grumbles, “ _Aleks_.”

Aleks laughs, eyes dancing with a playfulness that makes James want to join in, and then he presses their lips together in a real kiss. He’s warm, tastes familiar for all that James has only kissed him one or ten times before, weeks ago.

He doesn’t push; just the one kiss that lasts a few seconds, and then he’s pulling away and straightening up, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.

“Great, okay,” Aleks says loudly and chucks James’ chin - James is gonna fuckin’ kill him, he’d better do it before he takes his vows. “Let’s get sorting, I want to get dinner when we’re done.”

“I’m here until midnight,” James says to his back, still a little dazed.

“Midnight snack, then. Taco Bell is twenty-four hours,” Aleks says over his shoulder and accepts the box from the back of the truck that Brett drops in his arms.

“I’m not eating Taco Bell at midnight,” Brett says, looking mighty pleased. “Splurge and take us to a nice Chinese joint, at least.”

“You seriously don't need to stay that late,” James starts to protest, but they talk over him loudly, debating where to go for dinner, like he hadn't said a word.

He finds himself watching them; Brett as he organizes boxes on the truck bed and Aleks as he drops his box on a clear table and opens it up to look through its contents cautiously. His heart is beating too fast, face still warm where Aleks had brushed against his skin, lips tingling from the kiss. 

“James, get your ass over here and tell him what to do before he ruins the entire box,” Brett calls and it snaps James back into action.

“Three piles; men, women, children,” he orders, and he goes to them.

-

“I can't.” James shakes his head, smiling at Aleks’ pout. He’s leaning against his car, the metal cold and damp from the drizzle earlier against his palms where he's got them between the car and his back. Part of him wants to give in, go with them, but -

“I can't leave my car,” he shrugs. “And it’s late. I need to be here early tomorrow to finish.” 

“Slack off,” Aleks whines, and James can only continue with the assumption that most of their business gets done because of Brett’s work ethic when he nudges at his husband.

“We _respect your decision_ ,” Brett says with emphasis. “You’ll be done by tomorrow?” 

“That’s the plan.” James nods, doing his best to ignore the exaggerated face Aleks is pulling over Brett’s shoulder. He doesn't want Aleks to think he’s funny. 

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow,” Brett says, and his smile is bright, like he’s genuinely pleased about it.

“I won't be home 'til late,” James warns but Aleks just tucks his chin over Brett’s shoulder, loops his arms around his waist so he can lean most of his weight on Brett’s back. Brett looks like he barely notices the added pounds. 

“We’ll bring food,” Aleks announces, finally admitting defeat. “So get home before it's cold, angel.”

“I’ll try my best,” James scoffs, but his stomach feels heavy and light all at once, his heart aflutter. Maybe he’s having a stroke. It would be no more than he deserves, to be fair. 

“You have a microwave,” Brett reminds them both helpfully. “We can heat it up.”

“Thanks,” Aleks snorts. “Good idea, babe. We’ll _microwave_ your food until you get home.”

“My mic doesn't really work like that,” James says. “It only works if you press the three and then you have to, you know… wait a bit. And then you can press the three again.” 

“You _live_ like this?” Aleks says like he’s asking James if he’s okay with getting around without his legs. 

“Do _you_ live like this?” James says to Brett in much the same tone.

Brett cackles and shrugs, Aleks’ scowling face bobbing with the movement.

“I’m immune at this point. Eight years of dealing with the bullshit numbs you to his fuckery.”

“I,” Aleks says with as much aplomb as he can muster, “am the _best_ thing that has ever happened to you, _Brett_.”

“Oh, he’s calling you by your name,” James can't stop the grin. “Are we in trouble, Aleksandr?” 

He sees the way Aleks’ eyes darken and realizes that what he’d just said could be taken in a way he had, perhaps, not intended. Even Brett’s smile has shifted into something more smug to match his husband and rolls his eyes so hard that James is surprised they don’t fall out of his head.

“You two are impossible.” 

“If you wanna be in trouble, just say the word, angelcakes,” Aleks says and James can hear the genuine offer underneath the teasing.

“As we all know by now, I am _celibate_ ,” James says with the same pointed emphasis that Brett had used earlier. “But thank you for your time. I need to go home now.”

Aleks sighs dramatically, but Brett just looks amused as he folds his arms over Aleks’. They make what James has no trouble admitting is a beautiful picture. Aleks with his shock of blond and _brightness_ even just in the dim light of the shelter parking lot, Brett a contrast with his tan skin and dark hair, a calm that radiates. 

James thinks, quite suddenly, that he’d rather gaze at this image of them intertwined, happy and teasing, than even the most beautiful of stained glass scenes. 

“Anyway,” he says, blinking hard to get that thought out of his mind. “Time to get home for me.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Brett says again, leaning back against Aleks, the two of them switching who is holding who up as easy as breathing. His tone is still so pleased.

“Give us a kiss before you go.” Aleks closes his eyes, purses his lips in an exaggerated kissy face, and James flushes even as Brett rolls his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” Brett says with such fondness that James can’t even be mad.

Aleks just says, “come on, one little kiss before you go,” and purses his lips again.

James mets Brett’s eye, the both of them exasperated. 

“One kiss?” James asks.

“Just one,” Aleks agrees.

“Okay,” James gives, and leans forward. He presses a hand to Brett’s chest for balance, tilts his head down and touches his lips to Brett’s, the surprise on his face enough to make James feel even more smug than before.

Brett’s lips are warm, soft. He doesn’t hesitate to lift a hand, rest it on James’ shoulder for balance, press up into it with a soft hum. James lingers, inhaling slowly though his nose, taking in the feeling of Brett’s scruff against his own, of how warm his body is, how fast his heart is beating under James’ hand. He tastes familiar, too, like something James had been missing without even realizing.

He keeps it short, just long enough to tease, to taste, to feel Brett’s bottom lip between his, and then he’s straightening up, stepping back until he can open his car door. 

“A _trick_ ,” Aleks laments, but his voice is a little rough.

Brett just blinks, licks his lips, smiles and it’s almost shy.

“Gotta…” James clears his throat. “Gotta keep it equal, right?” 

And then he gets in, shuts the door, gets his car to sputter to life and rumble out of the lot. He watches them watch him leave through his rear view and finds himself wishing he could go to Taco Bell with them, instead.

-

They’re there the next night, food warm and Ein happy with a milkbone. James refuses to admit that he’s happy to see them no matter how hard Aleks tries to push him, but his smile gives him away.

They play cards, all eyes sharp on James, then watch a Maury marathon on James’ shitty TV with beer and some sort of lasagna Brett makes filling their bellies.

James laughs a lot. Finds himself smiling more than he’s found reason to smile in a good while. When he takes Ein out, they both come with him and it turns into a long walk, quiet except for the occasional word or two. 

Before they leave, Aleks asks to kiss him, quiet and dark-eyed, and James lets himself be kissed. Just one kiss. It's only a kiss.

He lets Brett kiss him too, Brett’s hands on his hips for balance and his bristly whiskers tickling along the shaved parts of his cheeks.

They’re half-way down the hall when he makes the decision to say it, something he’d been arguing with himself about most of the night.

“Hey,” he calls and Aleks stops first, turning to face him while Brett just turns half way, enough to see him. “Um. So, they gave me Friday off, too. Since I worked through the fourth. So, uh. If you… if you want to come over. Or something.”

“Is that an official invitation I’m hearing?” Aleks says with his shark smile but Brett, at least, turns around to face him fully, a pleased look on his face.

“We’ll be here,” he says. “We’ll bring the beer.”

“At least bring a trash bag, too, if you’re gonna leave all your cans around the place.” James frowns and it makes them both laugh.

“Good night, angel,” Aleks blows him a kiss and James refuses to admit that it makes his cheeks flush the faintest pink. 

“Good _night_ ,” he says quickly and shuts the door, flicking the lock like it’ll protect him.

He sits on his couch, ignores the cards still on the table and the beer cans on his counter and Ein gnawing on the last of her milkbone and just tries to ignore the voice yelling in his head that he knows exactly what he’s doing and it won’t end well for any of them.

-

They come over Thursday and stay the night on his couch, stick around until late Friday. They’re back Saturday afternoon and force James to let them take him out to some coffee shop. Aleks teases him about it being a date but James doesn't think he’s joking. Sunday night, they aren’t at his apartment but there’s another Subway sandwich on his table waiting for him.

It becomes a routine, being with them. Being comfortable, feeling safe with them.

Routine has always been James’ biggest enemy.

-

The yard of the church is well-maintained. They have a man come out every other week to cut the grass, fix any of the flowers that may be drooping, and remove anything that might have found its way to the lawn. 

The front of the church is beautiful, much like every other part of the church. The cathedral is almost terrifyingly tall, sharp angles and stained glass across the top that casts that orange glow in the main room that James loves. Along the bottom are bushes, some with flowers and some without, but all well cared for. 

The original chapel is set a little farther back into the property, just out of sight of the main road that leads to the church’s turn-off. Across the street are a string of small businesses; an animal hospital, a flower shop, a boutique, and a dental office. 

James doesn’t have much contact with any of those shops, but he’s intimately familiar with doing lawn care in the between week. They may have been in a good part of Los Santos, but they were still in Los Santos and trash found its way to the front of the church nearly every day.

When he comes in that Thursday, it’s to Sister Mary Ann waiting with a trash bag and a sticker and a, “some hooligans left a mess by the road, please clean it up.”

She looks far too pleased giving him his new tools, but he holds his sigh in until he’s turned on his heels and headed out through the doors again. He has things he has to do in the back, paperwork and cleaning properly. But of course his time is better spent cleaning up trash by the road, sure.

There is, at least, actual trash where she said and not just a handful of food wrappers. Some kids must have dumped all the trash in their car out, empty booze bottles and grocery bags of soda cans and empty chip bags, plus what James is pretty sure is a homemade crack pipe. 

“Damnit,” he mutters under his breath, stabs through one of the chip bags.

He’s working his way slowly through the pile when he hears someone approaching, making him jump when they clear their throat to catch his attention.

It’s a woman, when he turns, with long blond hair in a loose hair tie and an apron printed with the flower shop’s logo. 

“Hi,” she says, a little awkwardly, and raises a hand in greeting from where she’s stopped a good few feet away.

“...hi.” He shuffles his feet, just as awkward. “Can I help you?”

“You’re, uh.” She lifts her hand to her hair like she's going to brush it from her face, seems to realize that she has it up and drops the hand to tangle with its partner in front of her apron. “You're the guy, right? Who was… was in the church when those guys broke in?”

James goes still, clutching the sticker tight in his fist. 

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, sticking the point into the ground and glancing down to readjust the bag in his hand. Only the police had brought Frank up to him since the couple weeks following his death, like they were worried that they would frighten him off. James can admit that he is glad of it.

“Hi,” she says again. “I’m Brooke. I work at the - well.” She motions to her apron. 

“I’m James,” he introduces himself. “I work at the-” and he motions at the church behind him. It makes her smile, finally breaking the awkward tension that has been building from the moment she’d approached him.

“It’s nice to meet you.” She offers a hand and, after wiping it on his cassock, he took it in one of his and shook firmly once before letting go. 

“Likewise. Is there something I can do for you? Or…?”

“Oh, no, no, I just.,” She drops the smile. “I came to apologize.”

“Ah.” Finally he understands. He’s had a few of these, people who came up just to tell him how sorry they were, like they’d been involved at all. He’d… forgiven the two people responsible, though he probably shouldn’t have. If anyone should apologize, it should be him - to the police and the church for lying, to God for… literally everything that’s happened since the moment the gun had gone off. “It’s, I mean, it’s not okay, but you don’t have to-”

“No, I mean-” Brooke sighs, like she’s trying to get her words in order. “I came to apologize because… because I saw the two people earlier that day.”

“The third witness,” James says before he can stop himself, shock and relief almost making him drop the trash bag he’s got clutched in his fist. It was just a shop girl. Jesus, it was just a shop girl.

She nods, guilt plain on her face. “I waited so long to go to the police because I was worried they’d find out and come for me or my business, but...” She shakes her head. “That’s no excuse. I should have come forward immediately. Maybe they would have been caught by now if the police had had a better description to work with. I’m so sorry.”

James… takes a second to soak that in. She’s not wrong - if the police had had a better description of Aleks or Brett, or both, they could have had people out looking for them almost immediately. They could have been caught, easy as that.

He thinks of Aleks’ hand burning on his lower back through his shirt, of Brett’s whiskers against his cheek and their laughter as he, once again, wins a card game. How Aleks gets so heated over Maury and how weird it is that someone in Brett’s occupation is a vegetarian. 

He wishes he could thank her.

Instead, he just forces a smile and offers his hand again, which she takes between both of hers.

“You were scared, Brooke,” he says gently. “There’s nothing to forgive. We can’t change what’s happened, but we can do our best to change what will happen. Right?”

Eyes going a little glossy, she nods and squeezes his hand. “Right.”

“You came forward in the end and did the right thing.” At least one of them had. “That’s all anyone could ask for. Thanks for, you know, coming to talk to me ‘n’ all, though.”

“Thanks for not, uh.” She looks at their hands. “Blaming me or something. You’d be right to.”

“The only people to blame,” he says firmly, “are the people who hurt other innocent people.”

She smiles again, brighter than before, and he finds himself smiling back. He takes his hand back and she crosses her arms, rocking on her heels.

“Well, uh.” She motions with her shoulder. “I gotta get back to work. The hubby can only handle so many rose requests before he loses it.”

“Good luck with work.” He nods and watches her start to walk away. She’s almost too far when he manages to get his shit together enough to call out, “hey, can I ask you a question?”

She turns back around to look at him. “Sure, what is it?”

“It’s just...” He hesitates. “I didn’t… see anything. What did they look like?”

“Well…” She pauses, clearly reluctant. “The police said I shouldn’t tell people so things don’t get contaminated.”

“Oh, right.” He forces the smile back onto his face. “Thanks, anyway.”

“But, uh...” Brooke drops her voice, “From one witness to another. One of them was kinda pale and had this dirty blond hair and these sunglasses. A real douchey kinda look. And the other guy-” She cups her hands and then pulls them apart until there’s a wide space between them. “Arms like this, seriously, and this stupid hat, black suit, tan skin, pretty intense beard.”

“They sound…” He tries to think of a word, remembers his own reaction to seeing them for the first time. “...scary.”

“Yeah.” She frowns, shakes her head like she’s shaking away the feeling. “Take care, James.”

“You, too,” he says, and watches her walk all the way back across the street and into her shop.

He goes back to poking up trash, but his mind is spinning. He needs to tell them and he needs to tell them soon. What if they come to the church or something stupid like that? They already fucked around at the shelter, there’s no telling what kind of brazen acts Aleksandr could come up with in his crazier moments and Brett has a habit of going along with them more than putting a stop to them. 

Or, shit, if Brooke could still remember that vivid a description, if she’d given that to the police and Luna or Shawcross saw Aleks and Brett together, either of them would connect the dots fucking fast. Brett’s beard was already growing in again and Aleks’ roots were beginning to poke through and he wore those _stupid_ sunglasseseven on overcast days.

He’s able to hold off pulling his phone out until he’s finished cleaning up the trash and has retreated to the back room.

The text he composes is a series of panicked words that barely make sense: _shop girl saw it!!!!!_

He stops himself before he sends it. If… if he sends a text, there will be physical evidence. Collusion. As of right now, if Luna or Shawcross were to pull his phone records for some reason, see his texts, they’d find flirting, plan making, teasing, but not much else. If he sent this text, they would find him talking to someone who matched the description Brooke had given about the third witness.

He deletes the text. Instead, he calls. 

It rings and rings, no answer. He calls again with the same result.

Okay. Okay. That’s fine. 

Actually, no, that’s really not fine. What if the police had seen them at his apartment and picked them up? He hasn’t heard from them since Tuesday because a police car had drifted by his place Monday as they were leaving and it had spooked all of them but it’s already Thursday. No one has come knocking, but why would they unless one of them ratted James out or confessed?

He leaves the papers and goes to find the bishop.

“Oh!” The bishop blinks up from his desk, where he’d been hunched over a thick pile of reading. “Hello, Deacon, how can -”

“I’m having a bit of a personal emergency,” James blurts, trying to keep the panic in his voice under control. “And I’m so sorry to duck out, but-”

“Of course.” The bishop is already nodding, standing up with a worried expression. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.” James shakes his head, guilt and worry bubbling so high that it nearly chokes him. “I just - I’m so sorry.” 

“Nothing to forgive, James,” the bishop says kindly, because of course he has no idea why James is really apologizing. James just smiles thinly and leaves him behind in a forcibly steady walk to the parking lot behind the cathedral. 

He passes Sister Mary Ann as he’s leaving and she opens her mouth but he just breezes past fast as he can with a, “I’m leaving, sorry,” and he thinks she watches him go but he doesn’t look back to confirm.

Though it’s been well over a month since he’s been to their apartment, it’s the only place he can think to look. Aleks has joked about that church a time or two and Brett told him a little about it once and if they weren’t at their apartment, he’d try to track that place down next. If they weren’t there, he’d go home and break the laptop out again and get into the police records, see if they’d been booked or if anyone had submitted anything with their names attached. He doesn’t know their last names, but he could probably find those out pretty easily with all the information he has on them by now.

He doesn’t even think about using his burner Uber account. The address is still in their text history so he just sets the directions up, hits start, and spends the next hour trying not to have a panic attack as he drives. Mid-morning LS traffic is never nice and it's not any different today. He spends fifteen minutes in bumper to bumper gridlock, calls the number again and just grows more and more agitated as it rings and no one answers. 

Would it be used as evidence, that he’s called them so much? Is he putting them in danger by coming to their apartment?

“Hey,” he says after the beep, “please call me. Text me. Something. This is fuckin’ bullshit.” 

He hangs up as the traffic finally clears, listens to the directions that take him the last fifteen miles to their complex.

He sees Brett’s motorcycle as soon as he pulls up to their building, Aleks’ Lambo a few spaces away, next to a dark green Hummer that towers over the low-slung car.

James snatches his phone out of the cup holder, turns off the car and hops out.

He comes around the car, steps onto the sidewalk, and is halfway up the walk to the door when it opens.

There’s a second, just a brief second, where James feels a relief so crushing it’s almost surprising. And then he realizes that he doesn't recognize the man coming out of the apartment and all of the relief goes away.

He’s sandy blond and blue-eyed, looks more like he belongs in the lobby of a law firm than coming out of a loan shark den with his nice suit and a briefcase in hand.

He doesn’t even notice James and James is all set to step aside, silently let him pass and continue on into the apartment, until the man _does_ notice him. 

“Who the fuck are you?” the lawyer-man asks with more aggression in his tone than James is expecting. He stops just in front of James and looms.

“Who’s askin’?” James snaps back before he thinks better of it, straightening up under the icy stare that falls on him.

“What’s a priest doin’ on this side of town?”

“Like I said.” James crosses his arms. “Who’s askin’?”

The lawyer-man sighs loudly, like James has frustrated him, and lifts the hand not clutching the briefcase to pat at his perfectly parted hair to make sure it’s still in place. 

“It’s never easy, dealing with these idiots.”

And then, in a split second, James has enough time to get his arms up to protect his face from the suitcase that’s slamming directly into what would have been his head. He stumbles back with an undignified squawk, has a moment to think _why does this keep happening to me_ , and finds himself being shoved back again, off the path. He trips over one of the ferns, hopes he didn’t damage it even as he feels his foot twist the wrong way.

At this point in his life, with the company he now keeps, he thinks he should be used to weird circumstances. Still, being beaten up by a lawyer in front of Aleks and Brett’s apartment is kind of up there, along with ‘hiding in the confessional during a murder’ and ‘letting two gangsters help him sort charity items.’

He thinks these things as he falls, finds his palms and ass make jarring contact with dirt and dew-wet grass, phone skittering out of his grasp. The dry-cleaners are going to be pissed if he keeps coming around with grass-stains on his cassocks.

“Dude, what the fuck-” He reaches for his ankle, hisses at the sharp pain of his own touch as he prods it. He doesn’t think it’s twisted but - fuck, _ow_. Bruised, for sure. “You can’t just-”

He looks up, ready to tear this guy a new asshole, and then decides to soundly swallow his tongue instead.

It’s the second time he’s found himself staring down death in as many months, though this time it’s in the form of a wicked looking blade in this man’s hands. Somehow, the familiarity does not make the fear any less all-consuming. 

“Bad timing, father.” Lawyer-man frowns, though he doesn’t look particularly sympathetic. James looks up at him with wide eyes, blinks a few times, tries to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. He recognizes the look on the man’s face, had seen it on Aleks’ once upon a time; they have similar looks in their eyes, sharp and cold. Though where Aleks’ gaze melts for James, this man stays frigid. 

“Seems to be a habit.” James inches back a little, wonders what would happen if he yelled for help. 

“Don’t worry.” Lawyer-man motions with his knife - or, fuck, more of a cleaver - for James to stand up. “I’ll make sure this is the last time.”

“Now, okay, let’s-” James swallows again, can’t find the strength to move with the knife on him. “Let’s talk this out like, like adults, huh? What’s the problem here?”

“You’re the problem here, my friend.” Lawyer-man motions with the knife again, more insistent. “Why don’t we talk in my car? Gives us a little more privacy.”

“Twisted my ankle,” James lies. “I can’t - can’t stand.”

“Really, now?” Lawyer-man smiles unkindly. “Crawling will do.”

“My wrists are twisted, too,” James says without thinking and then just stops himself from slapping himself in the face for it.

Lawyer-man loses the smile. “That wasn’t a very good lie.” 

“For your sake, it better be a lie.” 

Aleks’ voice rips through the air with such force it’s almost thunderous. James snaps his eyes from the blade to the door, where a familiar head of peroxide blond is emerging.

He doesn’t look pleased. And Brett’s face, when he follows after Aleks, is even less so. 

“When I said we were done,” Aleks continues with a toothy smile, “I meant get the fuck out of here, my man.”

“I was just leaving.” Lawyer-man swings his suitcase at James vaguely, more emphasis than threat. “And then a goddamn priest showed up. Can’t have witnesses just walking around, of the cloth or not.”

“Transitional Deacon, actually,” Brett says with no hint of humor. “You have five seconds to stop pointing that at him before you lose the hand.”

“You know I can’t-” Lawyer-man starts to say but is sharply cut off by Aleks.

“I’d listen.” Aleks tilts his head toward James. “He’s ours and we don’t share.”

James blinks, slow and a little hazy with relief and fear buzzing through his head. He can see, when he squints through the shadow of the tree overarching their door, that Brett has a gun, and that it’s trained squarely on lawyer-man.

“The boss isn’t interested in anyone knowing about our transactions,” Lawyer-man says, edging on aggravation. 

“One,” Brett says. “Two.”

“Stop,” James cuts him off, scrambling to his feet and moving away from lawyer-man when he isn’t immediately stabbed. “Hey, I’m okay, it’s good, just - everyone calm down, okay?” 

His ankle does twinge, aches dully, but it’s just a slight limp that helps him meet Aleks halfway, who welcomes him with open arms and warm eyes. 

He loops an arm around James’ waist, lets him lean against him so he doesn’t have to hold his weight on his ankle. His other hand goes to James’ face, cupping his jaw and tilting his head down and to the side so Aleks can take a look at him.

“You’re okay?” Aleks asks quietly. “Not hurt? All good?”

“I’m okay, seriously,” James promises, looking Aleks over just as intensely, like he can spot traces of police activity on his body if only he looks hard enough. He turns his head to look at Brett. “Just - no shooting. Please. _Please_ , don’t shoot anyone.”

“Hush, angel.” Aleks strokes his cheek with a thumb, moves his other hand down and James has a moment where he thinks Aleks is going to _grope him_ in front of this fucking stranger with a cleaver, but Aleks just brushes his cassock off, takes his palms in his hands afterward to wipe the dirt away. “Sorry we missed your calls.”

“It’s fine,” James says automatically, even though it is very much not fine. “I’m just - sorry to interrupt. Stupid. It was stupid.”

“It wasn’t.” Aleks picks a small rock from his palm, brows drawing together as he looks at his hands. “You’re okay. Why don’t you go inside, angel? There’s some business we need to take care of, then we’ll be right with you, yeah?”

James looks over his shoulder at the lawyer-man, who’s making a face like he’s close to snapping something appropriately yuppie-like to break Brett’s patience, and has a feeling that his leaving won’t do anything to calm the situation.

“Come with me,” he says instead. “Both of you. Right?” He reaches out, catches the edge of Brett’s shirt and tugs, “No harm, no foul. This guy’s leaving, we’re going inside, we can all forget anything happened. Okay? I didn’t see nothin’.”

Brett makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, but he lets James catch his hand and Aleks doesn’t resist when James pushes against his chest, back toward their open door. 

“What the fuck is this?” Lawyer-man shouts and James sees his face twisting up into a look of confusion and anger. “What the fuck - is he your personal fuckin’ pastor or somethin’? I know you guys are hookin’ up with the Fakes but this is fucking ridiculous, parading a goddamn priest around here!” 

He points the knife at each of them in turn as he talks, growing steadily more annoyed, and James can rapidly see the situation escalating right in front of him as Aleks tenses against his body and Brett starts to pull away from him.

Not sure what else to do, he steps away from them, puts his hands up between both parties as a shield.

“Angelcakes,” Aleks takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. “Come here.”

“No.” James clears his throat to try to rid his voice of the embarrassing quiver, “This is just… it’s a big misunderstanding, that’s all. You-” he motions to lawyer-man. “Just… get in your car. Drive away. And you two.” He looks at Brett and Aleks. “I’m fine. Back off, okay?”

“Who in the hell do you think you are, exactly?” lawyer-man snaps back, taking a step closer to him, knife still raised. It doesn’t look like it fits him in his nicely cut suit and neat hair and briefcase, this blade longer than James’ hand and thicker than three of his fingers.

Fit him or not, he has it, though, and Brett doesn’t hesitate. For being the biggest, if shortest, of all four of them, Brett is fast. He’s behind James and then he suddenly isn’t anymore, and James is being pushed back into Aleks’ grasping hands against his will.

“Time’s up.” Brett knocks the knife away with a smooth jerk of his hand and decks lawyer-man with his other fist, fucking _pistol whips him_ , before James can even think to resist Aleks’ hold. Much like a bag of rocks, James imagines, the man falls with a huff of pain and not much else.

“Stop!” James snaps, trying to yank out of Aleks’ hold. “Seriously, don’t - _stop_ , please, don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Aleks tries to soothe, “Angel, it’s okay, calm down, no one’s getting hurt here. We’re denuclearizing, right, babe?”

“Right.” Brett stares down at the man at his feet, then pockets his gun and turns away to face them. “Denuclearizing. No more knife.”

“You didn’t have to _hit him_ ,” James shoves angrily at Aleks’ hands again. “God damn it, you two, you didn’t -”

“Hey.” Aleks lets him shove but doesn’t let go, hands tight on his wrists like he thinks James is going to run. “He had a _knife_ on you-”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” James hisses. “You can’t - you can’t just beat someone-” He can feel himself shaking. “-you can’t just _beat someone up_ in broad _daylight_ , what is _wrong_ with you, are you _crazy-_ ” He can't breathe -

Aleks frowns, looking more distressed than irritated, and let's go of one of his wrists to cup the back of his neck, instead. His hand is soothing, cool and kind of damp against his own hot skin.

“Everything is okay,” Aleks says quietly. “You’re safe, we’re safe. Everything is good.”

“ _No,_ you _aren't_ fucking _safe_!” James wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his cassock, trying to breathe in deep and slow, steady himself. “The third witness, I found - she’s-”

“Okay,” Aleks nods, squeezing the nape of his neck. “Okay, good, that's good. We can talk about that later.”

“She saw you,” James says. “She _saw_ you,”

And what happens next, in James’ memory, is… hazy.

Later, he’ll remember hearing yelling behind him. Whipping around to see that the lawyer-man had risen during the distraction of his panic and gone for Brett's gun.

He remembers Aleks pushing him toward the door and leaping to Brett’s aid, and remembers seeing the shine of the blade on the ground.

He doesn't remember making the decision to pick it up instead of going inside, or the decision to - attack with it, or however one would describe what he next did.

He remembers the way the lawyer-man’s hand had looked held out with the gun loose and awkward in his grasp, Brett's anger and Aleks’ coldness, and he remembers what the blade looked like half-buried in the man’s hand, remembers three fingers in the grass like pale worms, the gun bloody where it lay next to them.

He remembers the screaming.


	6. Confess my love, I'd know where to be (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello!!!!!
> 
> thank u as always to kay (@cibmata), who worked their butt off to get this part edited lmao im so sorry im a mess friend
> 
> just one more part o part two after this ;))))) then we will be going on abit of a break while i write part 3 and part 4!!!! im honestly gonna guess this is gonna have about 10 chapters but....we will see u kno me.

“He's gone,” Brett says, and James nods slow. 

The water coming out of the tap is hot, almost scalding, but he feels like he can still see blood every time he turns his hands over. He can't look at himself in the mirror, can't meet his own eye even though Aleks had already cleaned his face off for him.

Aleks rubs his shoulder, humming thoughtfully. He’d been helping scrub James’ hands until the water had run clear. “He drive himself?”

“Yeah, crawled away while I was telling the old bat upstairs to mind her own business.”

“Sorry,” James says for what might be the tenth time since Aleks had dragged him into the apartment to wash off. 

“Nothing to be sorry about, angel.” Aleks squeezes his shoulder before he steps away, out of the bathroom. “I’ll go grab some stuff.”

Brett doesn't answer, stepping into place next to James’ instead. 

“James.” He turns the water off. “Come on. Sit down.”

“I need to clean-” James starts, but doesn't resist when Brett tugs him away from the sink. 

Their bathroom is in their bedroom. James has only been in the apartment once before, during that first meeting, but the bedroom is about how he imagined it. There are no pictures, and everything is neat, put away. The comforter, at least, has little printed cacti all over it and the pillows match. James doesn’t know why that makes him want to cry even more, but it does.

Brett leads him out of the bedroom, though, and into the living room. He sits them both down on the couch with James tucked against his side and James doesn’t even think about it; he just turns, hides his face in Brett’s shoulder and tries to forget how easy fingers are to slice through.

Aleks comes to join them a few minutes later, collapses into the spot on James’ other side. 

“Here.” He nudges at James’ arm until James surrenders a hand and he feels Aleks wrap his fingers around a warm mug. And Aleks doesn’t let go, keeps his own hands around both James’ and the mug. 

When he finds the strength to look up from Brett’s arm, Aleks is helping him hold a mug of coffee. He hadn't even heard anyone in the kitchen.

When he takes a sip he finds that it's almost exactly how he likes it.

“Thank you,” he says quietly and he looks at Aleks. There are wrinkles around his eyes that James hasn’t seen before. 

Aleks doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits for James to wrap both hands around the mug properly and rest it in his lap, and then he slings an arm over his shoulder, bends his elbow so he can press his palm to the base of James’ skull. James closes his eyes, feels Aleks press his lips to his temple, breathe deep and exhale slow along James’ skin.

“If we are ever in a situation like that again,” Aleks finally says, voice rough, “I don't care what the fuck is going through your head. You listen to me.” 

James nods, feels his eyes burn behind his lids. 

He can feel how tightly they both are holding him, Aleks’ hand in his hair and Brett's fingers tense where they're rubbing his side, the muscles of his arm still taut where they're pressed along James’ back.

The three of them sit quietly for a long while. Eventually, Aleks turns the TV on and let's the channel stay on a rerun of Ghost Adventures and James shakily drinks his coffee with the two of them on either side of him. 

“Brett,” Aleks says at the end of the episode and Brett reluctantly starts to get up.

“Don't,” James says before he can stop himself, panic creeping up his spine, but Brett squeezes his shoulder.

“I'm not leaving,” he promises. “Just packing.”

“Packing,” James repeats, glancing between them.

“Brett and I can't… stay here for a little bit. The apartment, I mean,” Aleks explains. “Too easy to find us if Truman's bosses come looking.” 

“And Truman is…”

“The guy we maimed, yeah.”

“ _Aleks_ ,” Brett snaps when James shudders. “Come on.”

“Sorry,” Aleks says, though all three of them know he doesn't mean it much. Aleks isn't the comforting type, usually. James is surprised enough that he's done this much when he usually prefers _causing_ emotional distress to soothing it. 

“Anyway,” Aleks continues, “Brett's just packing a bag so we can find a place to stay for a couple weeks.”

“Oh my God.” James covers his face. “I chased you out of your _home_.”

“No, hey.” Brett sits back down, peeling James’ hands away from his face. “That’s not what happened. He came at you, sweetheart, it isn’t like you attacked him.”

“I _did_ -” James shakes his head, throat so tight he can barely speak. “He just - you were fighting and he had, you know he had the gun and I didn't think, I didn't-”

“James.” Aleks cuts him off, tilts James’ head with a finger under his chin until they’re looking each other in the eye. The wrinkles are still there, a serious look on Aleks’ face that James isn’t really used to. Aleks is kind of like Peter Pan in James’ mind - a prankster who never quite grew up, who was a bit malicious in his games. Now, James can see why Brett follows him without so much as a peep about the dynamics. It’s comforting, the way Aleks looks so calm and confident as he speaks. 

“You saved that guy’s life. Get that in your head and keep it there. He lost a few fingers, and he was _lucky_ for it.”

“But-”

“He pointed a knife at you in my goddamn front yard,” Aleks cuts him off again and his stare is intense enough that James loses the argument on his tongue. “I was going to skin him alive for that. And then he _attacked_ Brett?” Aleks smiles, but it isn’t kind. “You were Truman’s guardian angel today. He’s alive now because of you.”

James swallows, and he doesn’t know what else to do but nod. His stomach feels... weird. That Aleks hadn’t seemed like he was exaggerating when he said he was going to skin someone alive for threatening James. And the fear is still there, bubbling and broiling, but it isn’t for Truman or for himself or for anything except them. 

“You’re okay?” James looks at Brett, then back at Aleks. “Neither of you are - no police? You didn’t get hurt, you aren’t being tailed, nothing?”

“No,” Aleks says. But when Brett tries to leave again, James can't let go of his hands. Brett settles back down on his knees without a word, squeezes their fingers together. His touch chases the feeling of hot blood away. 

Much like how Frank was not the first murder James has had to play dumb about in his past, this is not the first maiming. It is, on the other hand, the first maiming James has had a direct hand in and he can't strip the image of those fingers from his mind, nestled in the grass like Halloween decorations.

He feels along Brett's hands, his fingers, traces where they connect to his palm. Imagines slicing through them and almost throws up right then and there. 

Instead, he untangles their fingers to take a long, deep chug of his coffee. Brett takes his chance to duck out but Aleks stays next to him, keeps contact. James takes strength in it and his mug is empty before he even realizes it

“Where are you staying?” he finds himself asking quietly as he’s staring into the last dregs of his drink.

“Dunno yet.” Aleks rubs light circles into the back of his neck and James tilts his head forward without really thinking about it, sighs and finally feels his shoulders start to relax with the touch. “Brett’s got some good friends. We know a few guys who might be able to help us out.”

“I’m sorry,” James repeats, carefully taking Aleks’ hand between his when Aleks doesn’t smack him for it. “I just - I panicked. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“It’s fine.” Aleks shrugs and takes the initiative, slides his fingers between James’ and brings it up to his lips. James rarely forgets how dangerous Aleks is, knows that behind those lips are shark’s teeth. But this is one of those times where he does, feeling Aleks’ soft kiss against his knuckles. “It’s cute you were so worried about us.”

“Shut up,” James says on instinct, but he can’t deny the truth that he _was_ worried and they both know it.

“It’s cute that you’d protect us,” Aleks continues, voice dropping. “Shit, angel, it’s real sweet of you.”

“I said shut up.” James swallows, can’t help but feel the way Aleks’ lips are brushing his skin every time he talks.

“Can’t a guy appreciate being a priority around here?” Aleks grins against his hand. “Thank you, angelcakes. For protecting us.”

“That’s not my name.” James looks at their hands and then meets Aleks’ eyes, realizes his jaw is clenched so tight that it’s starting to hurt.

“Thank you for protecting us, James,” Aleks says again, quieter, and turns one of his hands over, kisses the center of his palm. It’s the most intimate thing James has ever experienced, quite possibly, and it steals all the air in his lungs. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He _had_ done it to protect them, and he realizes that he’d do it again, if he knew it meant making sure they were safe.

So instead of responding to that, he just lets out a shuddering breath and says, “you can stay with me. If you want. Until things blow over with that guy.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Brett says, sitting back in his spot, small duffle at his feet now. With how jumpy James is, he feels like he should have been more thrown than he was by his sudden return, but it just makes his chest feel less tight to have him back. “It’s not a big deal, sweetheart.”

“Well, now, babe,” Aleks argues, eyes bright and smug, “who are we to turn down an offer as nice as that, huh?”

James turns a little to look at Brett, Aleks still holding his hands, and frowns. “No, I’m serious. It’s my fault things got… out of hand.” He winces at his poor choice of words. “So if you two wanna crash on my couch for however long you need…”

He thinks about the panicked flight from the church, the days without contact and the hour of certainty that he’d lost them to the police. The realization that he wasn’t willing to give either of them up, not yet. He thinks about what it would be like if he got that gut feeling that something was wrong again and had to drive even further, or didn’t even know where they were, what he’d do if he couldn’t get a hold of them. How it would feel to not hear _angel_ from Aleks anymore or see Brett smile. 

“Stay with me,” he says, more firmly. “If you don’t think the couch will fuck up your poor old man back, I guess.”

“ _Hey_!” Brett barks and Aleks yelps out a deep laugh, delighted. 

“I’m just saying.” James shrugs, going for dismissive and sure he comes off as obvious as he always does. They can both see right through him at every turn, but his pride won’t let him stop pretending. Just in case. 

“Well now we _have_ to stay on your couch,” Aleks says. “If only to prove exactly how much Brett’s back can take.”

“Was that a sex joke?” James wrinkles up his nose. “Keep me out of your freaky sex games, dude.”

“Oh, angel.” Aleks wiggles his eyebrows and Brett groans. “Keeping you out of our freaky sex games has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

James’ faces goes hot and he slaps at Aleks’ hands until he’s released, flustered and - just flustered. That’s the only reason. 

“Aleks _andr_.” 

Aleks shivers theatrically, like James has fuckin’ agreed to give him a handy or something. “Yeah, angel, say my name.”

“Never mind.” James whips around to face Brett, “I changed my mind. You can find another mattress. Brett, _you_ can stay with me, if you want.”

Brett’s familiar smile stretches his lips, teeth bared, amusement in his eyes - and relief, James can see. “Oh, can I?”

“Angel,” Aleks whines from behind him and James shakes off the last of the whole handy in the back of the car image in his brain, focuses on them and the fluttering in his chest at the thought of them living in his studio with him. On what it’ll be like to be with them so much more often than before. A thought that he wants to dismiss creeps in, a soft wonder that he might accidentally overhear them again, that he’ll get to hear Brett’s voice in that high-pitched begging tone again, or hear the husky drop in Aleks’ voice. That he might accidentally see something. 

He shoves it away along with the images of the fingers in the grass and stands up. “Well... well. Don’t you two have packing to do?”

“All done.” Brett pats the duffle.

“Almost,” Aleks corrects and stands up with James, pats his lower back before retreating to the side-table to grab their wedding photo with a flourish. “ _Now_ we’re all done.”

“That’s all you’re taking?” James blinks at the duffle, barely big enough, he thinks, to fit _his_ things, let alone enough for two of them.

“We pack light.” Brett shrugs, joining them in their standing. “If you wanna finish up a wipe down, Aleks…”

“My turn, huh?” Aleks sighs, but snags James’ mug from the table. He leans over the other side of the table to peck Brett on the lips and then he does the same to James. James doesn’t even think, just lets his eyes flutter closed, leans into it. He rocks back when he _realizes_ , but it’s _too late_ and Aleks looks smugger than ever before.

“Meet you guys at your place, angel.” Aleks licks his lips slow, like he’s savoring the taste. “Drive safe.”

“Are we leaving without you?” James blinks and Brett touches his back. Palm wide and warm through his cassock, a soothing touch.

“He’s gonna wipe the place down, clean it up so they won’t find anything fucky around the place. And he needs to burn the clothes.”

James blinks again and, looking between them, realizes that they’ve changed into different clothes at some point. Oh.

“Oh.”

“So I’ll go with you.” Brett pushes a little until James starts to move, and James goes easily, though he does toss one last glance at Aleks, who watches them both with something akin to fondness in his gaze. “And Aleks will meet up with us in a couple hours. Right?”

“Right.” Aleks waggles his fingers in a wave. “Just a couple hours. No need to fret.”

“I’m not fretting,” James lies, and is treated to smiles from them both. 

Ugh.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Brett agrees, like an asshole, and James grumbles all the way to the car.

Sometime around him giving his keys to Brett because he’s still too shaky to drive and clutching one of Brett’s hands so tight he’s almost worried he’s cutting off circulation as they drive away, he finally asks himself if this is such a good idea.

He doesn’t have an answer but he doesn’t feel even an ounce of regret it. For any of it.

-

He leaves Brett to unpack while he goes to shower. Two hours later, his cassock is stiff and gross, even if the blood is invisible. He’s going to burn it, buy a new one if he can’t find a replacement at the church that he can sneak out without anyone realizing. At this rate, he’s going to bloody every cassock in the city.

His rosary is clean, at least. He's lost his phone at some point, and that's a bummer because he won't be able to afford a new one any time soon, but it's a relief to peel his clothes off and scrub his skin under the lukewarm water until he feels vaguely clean again.

He spends… a lot of time in the shower, because it takes a lot of time to reach that feeling of _clean_. By the time he steps out, the water is icy and he’s shivering, hair plastered to his skin in sopping ringlets and fingers a little bit numb. 

He still can’t look at himself in the mirror, doesn’t want to meet his own eye, but he takes his time drying off, roughly rubbing his hair and then his body and then his hair again while he’s at it. When he gets dressed, he barely notices that he’d grabbed a sleeveless tank. Hiding his tattoos had been a fun game for a while, but it’s at the bottom of his list of priorities at this point.

Aleks is still gone when he comes out, but Brett is on the couch, feet kicked up on his IKEA table and beer in hand. Ein has taken position sleeping on his lap.

He blinks at James when he sees him, gaze confused and then suddenly sharp and dark as he takes him in.

“I like your shirt,” te says, and that’s all. James crosses his arms, tries to keep his smile down.

“I’m sure,” he says, and goes to join him. Brett slings an arm over his shoulder, tugs him into his side and offers his beer. James takes a long, grateful drink and hands it back. 

They watch Maury until, an hour later, Aleks finally walks in, a few bags of groceries and the framed photo in his hands.

“Okay, motherfuckers,” he starts as soon as he’s through the door, and then sees them and stops short. 

“You want help?” Brett offers and James starts to sit up too but Aleks shakes his head sharply to stop him.

“No,” he says, looking them over. “You two, uh… Stay there. I can do this.”

“You sure?” James frowns but Aleks just nods and he slowly relaxes again. Brett is warm and comfortable against his side and he rubs at James’ arm as they settle back down.

He leans his head on Brett's shoulder, watches a pair of security guards pull an angry not-the-father off stage and listens to the quiet sounds of Aleks putting things away in his small kitchen. Aleks joins them when he's done, slipping into the space next to James easily. When he cautiously takes hold of his arm, James rolls his eyes but lets him look the tattoos over, following the hints of his touch to turn it this way and that.

“Vibrant,” Aleks says softly, stroking the outline of one of his devils. 

He hums, closes his eyes and feels Aleks’ fingers on his tattoos, feels Brett breathing slow and steady. Feels safe in his own apartment.

They all sit together and watch Maury. At some point, Aleks sets James’ lost phone on the table and James loses his fight with his smile.

-

James regrets. He regrets a lot of things. 

He hears a muffled sigh, the creak of the pull out. Ein snuffles where she’s sleeping against his chest, wiggles around to get comfortable, and he stares at the dim slants of light across his bed made by street lamps and blinds.

He hears Aleks whisper something, a wisp of voice, and Brett groans, low and quiet. He can’t tell if they know he's awake or not, but he wishes that they'd stop. Stop _tempting_ him all the time. He shifts his legs, squeezes his thighs together and ignores the pulsing between them. 

The mattress shifts, squeaks again. He hears a bitten off sound and digs his fingers into his pillow, turns his face into the softness like it can hide him. 

He prays. Tries to recite from memory every verse he can think of. Between the lines of text in his head is the image of Brett on the pull out with Aleks leaning over him. 

Brett spreads his legs in James’ mind between the first line of a Hail Mary and the second, and Aleks kisses his chest. They look so good, shadows and pale skin on bronze, dark hair and white-blond, Brett's face scrunched up as he fights the pleasure and _hallowed be thy name -_

“I think we have an audience, babe,” Aleks says, just loud enough to be heard.

James’ breathing hitches. He might make some sort of noise, but he can’t say for sure.

If he does, it seems to do _something_. Brett finally loses his battle against whatever Aleks is doing, makes that whining noise again, the one that haunts James’ dreams, and James shivers before he can stop himself as he listens. 

The breathing and soft moans go quiet; no more whispers or muffled noises. It's just quiet, and James takes the chance to just - inhale. Exhale.

“Maybe we should get a privacy sheet,” Aleks says after a few minutes, and Brett gives a shaky laugh. James shifts again, clears his throat. 

“You two are cleaning _those_ sheets tomorrow,” he snarks back and tries to ignore the rasp in his voice.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Brett says, sounding like he’s fading, syrupy thick with how pleased he is. 

James bites his pillow and Aleks laughs, low and still rough with that _voice_ of his. 

“Go to sleep, baby. You’re ‘sir’ing the wrong guy.”

“Am I?” Brett hums, and then goes quiet. James clears his throat again, forces his body to relax. 

“We’ll, uh. Try to be quieter,” Aleks says after a few seconds. James refuses to open his eyes.

“No, you won’t.”

“Probably not,” Aleks admits, and James snorts because it’s either laugh or cry at this point and he’s cried enough in the last thirty hours. 

“Good _night_ , Aleksandr.”

“Goodnight, angelcakes.”

“Fuck you.”

Aleks laughs again and James covers his face with his pillow while Ein huffs irritably. 

He has regrets.

-

He'd been stupid. 

To be fair, he'd been stupid for most of his reign as NOVA. High on too many coding books and anonymity to see what he was doing, who he was hurting, how much danger he was in.

But the job he'd taken to track down a Rooster had probably been his stupidest mistake by far. Ten-k wasn't money to sniff at, though, and the Roosters were all the way in Texas. Tucked in his tiny Philly burner apartment, he'd felt _safe_. Safe and powerful.

So he'd done it. He'd tracked down who would one day be known internationally as the Kingpin hiding out in a ranch around Dallas with his little club of hoodlums. Had he _known_ that they would grow into the Fakes, or that the Golden Boy would track him down so easily, he wouldn't have taken the job even if it was for all the money in the world. 

But he hadn't known, because he'd been twenty-two and dumb as a bag of bricks, and he'd found the lot of them in that ranch house in Texas and sold the location and gone about his day.

He'd seen the news later, the unexpected arson of a small ranch just outside Dallas and the charred bodies found inside, and he's been terrified to his core since.

Later, when he found out that the Kingpin had survived and so had his cohorts, that the charred bodies had been his employers, and that the Golden Boy and Mogar had been spotted around Philly, he had very casually lost his entire shit and retired NOVA for forever. 

He'd deposited his ill-gotten gains into his mother's retirement funds and gone to seminary on the other side of the goddamn country. Los Santos had been a city known for its grime, its hidey-holes. If NOVA could disappear, it would be in Los Santos.

And then the Kingpin had made his throne of LS and James was already going to seminary and was too paranoid to leave, to make a fuss. 

NOVA was dead - because if NOVA was alive, than James would be dead in a matter of weeks. The Fakes don't forgive and they don’t forget. 

-

_I know you guys are hookin’ up with the Fakes but this is fucking ridiculous._

-

Brett is downstairs, on the phone. 

The last couple days have consisted of James leaving for work with Brett on the phone with someone trying to _get things in order, sweetheart, don't worry about it_ , while Aleks paces, and coming back to much the same image.

As far as James knows, neither of them have left the building to avoid being spotted by Truman's crew or any patrolling cops. And James had appreciated that, but he'd recognized that Aleks was about to put a hole in his walls if he didn't get out so he'd come up with a compromise.

“Don't make a lot of noise,” James says as he leads Aleks up the back staircase. “We aren't really allowed to be here.”

“Are we commiting a _crime_?” Aleks says with more enthusiasm than is really warranted, but he keeps his voice down. “I didn't know you had it in you, angelcakes.”

“Shut up,” James says instead of _you have no idea_. He just tugs him along, leading the way. Their hands are tangled together, Aleks’ long fingers warm and vaguely clammy where their skin touches. James rubs at the callouses along the tips of his fingers, finds himself wanting to ask but holding back.

“Where are we going?” Aleks asks for the third time, because he's an impatient fuck. 

“Be quiet,” James huffs back, but he doubts he manages to come across as annoyed as he wishes he had. “You'll see when we get there.”

“Are you sneaking me into some dark corner to have your way with me, James?” 

“To kill you,” James snipes and that has Aleks cackling long enough for them to reach the door to the roof. It's locked, as usual, but he knows where the landlord keeps the key and it’s a matter of feeling along the top of the door frame until the tell-tale cling gives it away.

“You run this joint, huh?” Aleks asks, crowds along his back just close enough to not quite touch, and James responds with a swift elbow to the stomach that fights him off.

“Just the roof door,” James says as he gets it unlocked, while Aleks is still bent over and groaning about his cruelty. 

He pushes the door open, dropping the key into his jeans pocket, and drags Aleks out by his sleeve into the night air.

“I thought you were supposed to do no evil,” Aleks grumbles as James pulls him, but he goes.

“Protecting myself from lechers is not evil,” James says and hopes the fondness in his voice is hidden by the traffic noises that take over the further out they go.

He doesn’t come up here too often, not now that he has Ein. When he’d first moved in, though, he’d spent so many nights on this roof that he could still feel the rough concrete against his skin, the warmth of it through his clothes, a familiar comfort just being up here again.

“Lecher?” Aleks whines but he feels his way down James’ arm until they can tangle their fingers together again. “Is that how you think of me, angelcakes? You _wound_ me.”

“I wouldn’t have to think of you like a lecher if you kept your hands to yourself,” James reminds him. 

“Oh, but that little black number you always wear is hard to resist. I can’t be blamed.” 

“You have a disgusting kink and can absolutely be blamed for it.”

Aleks catches him by the waist when they’ve reached the middle of the roof and James, damn him, lets it happen. 

“Kinkshaming, father? Fucking hypocrite.” 

“Do you want to get hit again?” James warns and he can feel Aleks chuckling against his shoulder. 

“Brett told me they used to smack his hands in school. Figured it would stop after that.”

James leans back slowly, giving in centimeters at a time, and finds that Aleks is willing to take his weight. Accepts it easily and with a pleased hum when James lets him do it. 

“They don’t stop after school sometimes,” James scoffs and lets Aleks feel along his fingers. He focuses on one of the small bumps above his knuckles, a scar that probably won’t heal for a long, long time. 

“I never regretted it,” Aleks says after a few seconds of silence. James had been looking out over the edge of the building, down at the cars driving through his little neighborhood, the neon lights of the gas station four streets over that glows just bright enough to make itself seen. Aleks’ words bring him back, though, catch his attention. 

“You should.” James swallows, curls his fingers but doesn’t pull away from Aleks’ touch. 

“Nah.” Aleks starts to rock slowly and James sways with him, lets his eyes close. It feels so closed off, just the two of them, here. “He’s lucky I offed him before we found you. God, if I had the fucking chance to go for his throat again-”

“Don’t.” James nudges him. “Don’t, okay? He wasn’t all bad. Traditional, sure, but… he didn’t deserve that. No one deserves what happened to him.”

“You don’t even know what he did, James.” James can hear the frown in his voice and the swaying stops, but James doesn’t want to fight or bicker. Not up here, where he brought Aleks to relax. 

“We’d all be dead if we were punished for our worst crimes, wouldn’t we?” James asks, quiet, and Aleks doesn’t respond for a long moment. He strokes along his fingers again, instead, and James releases a soft sigh when he starts to rock again.

“What’s your worst crime, angel?”

_Not regretting what happened to Frank, either. Planning to rob the church. Truman. NOVA. Falling for you two. Letting you hold me like this._

He has so many answers to the question that there isn’t an answer at all.

“If I answered that, I’d have to kill you.”

Aleks laughs, low, and James doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets himself feel the laughter against his shoulder and back. 

“Thanks for bringing me up here.”

James opens his eyes. It’s as dark as the city ever gets, with the sun down and the stars blotted out by light pollution and the higher buildings around them. 

“You were going crazy.”

“Brett’s always been better about staking things out,” Aleks admits easily. “I’m the mover, not the planner.”

“Well… this place isn’t in view of the road, so.” James shrugs, careful not to dislodge Aleks’ chin, “If you’re ever bored inside and you’re quiet enough...this place is usually empty. It’s where I go when I need to think and it’s safe.”

He knows it is, had made sure of it before he’d ever chanced bringing Aleks out of the apartment.

“It’s pretty up here.” Aleks is warm against his back, firm and a comfort James has never really felt before them. He wishes, suddenly and so fiercely that it almost burns, that things were different. That he wasn’t _him_ and they weren’t who they were. That they’d met for different reasons, found different roads that made being like this easier and more safe. He wants to kiss Aleks without an ounce of alcohol in his body and that’s how James knows he should go downstairs and leave Aleks to work out his cabin fever alone. 

“Yeah,” he says, instead of leaving. 

They don’t say anything else for a long time. James leads him to his stewing spot, where there’s still the perfect amount of space to lay down flat and stare at the sky. Aleks pulls his sweater off and they use it like a pillow and then they lie flat together, shoulder to shoulder, and breathe the air in comfortable silence. 

Brett joins them, eventually, with a blanket after a text from Aleks, and James has to imagine it looks a little bit like that scene from The Lion King - the three of them splayed out on his roof to stare at the starless night sky. 

At some point Brett tangles his hand with James’ too, and James makes himself stop wondering. For now, he just wants to sit and enjoy the calm. He feels like, soon enough, he won’t be able to find any peace again and he wants to savor what little he has left. 

-

“No, you can’t buy my groceries.” 

“Why is trying to spend money on you so hard?” Brett complains, but at least James doesn’t have to worry about him throwing a fit like Aleks would have. Instead, Brett just keeps pushing the cart behind him as they shuffle down the aisle looking over the shelves. 

It turns out, to no one’s surprise, that three grown men eat more than one grown man would in a two week period and despite his best efforts James has needed to take more short grocery trips than he has time for. Brett, freshly shaven and dressed in very flattering workout gear James doesn’t think should be allowed anywhere near him for his own sake, draws less attention even dressed like that than Aleks’ sheer personality does so they’ve snuck away to go on a big shopping trip while Aleks is asleep. 

“Because you two throw too much around and you’re going to get noticed like that.” 

“Two hundred bucks on a couple weeks worth of groceries for three people is not throwing anything around.”

James just hums shortly in response, letting the lack of words speak for itself, and can hear Brett rolling his eyes. 

The cart is already pretty full, much more than normal for James’ trips, and he doesn’t think most of it is meant for budget. Brett’s a _vegetarian_ , which is… laughable for so many reasons, and he’s been cherry-picking things off of nearly every shelf. James can spot wheat noodles and at least three different kinds of bread and he’s kind of excited to get to produce if only to see how many bags of salad Brett is going to buy. There’s a box of Oreos that James is sure is meant for Aleks, but he thinks Brett is probably in charge of cooking for the both of them with how easily he grabs things without even looking.

And, of course, with how often he’s been cooking for them the last couple days; James hasn’t eaten this well in years and he’s almost worried he’s going to have to start wearing the stretchy slacks every day if it keeps going. 

“Can’t you think of it like us paying rent or something?” Brett tries again two aisles later, when they’re peering over the drinks. James is comparing water prices and he finds himself shaking his head out of amusement more than annoyance. 

“I think...” he starts to say, and then stops as he remembers the reason that they’re staying with him in the first place and shudders hard enough that he almost drops the gallon jug in his hand. “No, it’s okay.”

“Hey.” Brett steps around the cart, leaves it behind to stand next to him and carefully take the water from him. “You good?”

“Yeah.” James nods once, then nods again to shake the image of the fingers in the grass out of his head. “Yeah, I’m… sorry. I just still see-”

“I get it,” Brett says before he has to continue and James is thankful for it. Brett folds a strong hand over his shoulder, squeezes comfortingly, and James takes the offered assurance. He still remembers how closely they’d both held him after Truman had left, and how nice it had felt to be held, and this is an echo of that that he appreciates. 

They stand in the drink aisle for maybe a little longer than necessary and James lets Brett put both brands of water he’d been comparing in the cart without too much more protest, if only because Brett had reached down to hold his hand and it’s got him tongue-tied. 

James had never really done the whole… hand-holding thing, back when he did the whole _thing_ in the first place. NOVA had been such a dangerous secret that he hadn’t wanted to let anyone know about or come near, and he’s never really been one for PDA. 

It’s hard to resist Brett, though, when he looks just a little smug that he’s getting away with it, when his hand is so warm and secure around James’. Brett doesn’t push, not nearly as much as Aleks, and James has to wonder if he knows that he could have just asked and James would have given in easily. He tightens the fingers woven through Brett’s, the feeling of his hand in James’ now familiar. He recognizes his rough skin, the callouses, the strength that even these muscles hold.

The rest of the trip is quiet and relaxed. Brett has to let go to control the cart eventually, but they stand closer than before and James just rolls his eyes when he sees a few of his regular pantry items appearing in the cart without him noticing. 

“You think you’re slick,” he mutters as they head toward self-check out and it makes Brett stop and laugh.

“Thanks for reminding me, sweetheart.” Brett claps his back once, light enough that it doesn’t send James stumbling but he knows that it _could_ have, and then he turns around to head toward a different aisle.

“I thought we were done,” it’s James’ turn to whine, ready as he is to go home and take a nap or something, but he follows dutifully past shampoo and shaving cream and make-up. 

When he catches up with Brett, it’s in front of two rows of condoms and another row of discreetly packaged lube.

“ _Brett,_ ” he says with such betrayal in his voice that it makes Brett laugh again.

“You’re the one that brought up slick.” Brett points out and James groans out loud at that. 

“Gross. Gross, dude.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Brett nods along, obviously unconvinced on James’ opinions of the current topic, “I’m sure it is, James. Totally gross.”

“You sound like Aleks.”

“There’s no need to be insulting.” Brett finally plucks a box of condoms from the wall and then reaches down for a box of lube. He hesitates between two and James can’t help but look - both are pretty expensive compared to their neighbors, but one is flavored and the other is apparently self-heating.

He wants to respond to Brett’s jab, but his tongue is swollen and he can’t open his mouth around the words. He’s trying to fight off _thoughts_ , but he’s _weak_. That they need new lube even though they’ve been at his apartment for so long. That Brett can’t decide between self-heating and _flavored_. That James is pretty sure if he asked what the hold up was, Brett would go into detail about why he can’t pick between the two and he’s wearing a shirt that shows off most of his chest and all of his arms and his pants are way too tight for James’ sanity and -

He choose the self-heating, in the end, and tosses it casually into the cart along with the condoms. 

“It’s rude to leave a mess,” he says like he needs to explain and James feels kind of dizzy so he just nods. 

“Your face is so red, dude,” Brett continues when James doesn’t respond. “Oh my god, you’re so red.” 

“Shut up,” James snaps back, scrubbing at his cheeks like he could erase the pink. “I’m not fucking - shut up.” 

“I’m not laughing at you,” Brett tries to defend himself, like a _liar_. “Really, really, I’m definitely not -”

“You are,” he accuses forcefully. “You are, and it’s fucking rude is what it is, fucking _rude_.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brett gives in. “Really, no, really, I’m - it’s shitty, I shouldn’t laugh at you.”

“You shouldn’t.” James crosses his arms, turns his back to pick over the cotton ball selection on the opposite aisle. “Fuck you.”

“That _is_ what the lube’s for,” Brett teases and catches the bag that James lobs at his head. 

“ _Enough_ ,” James demands. “No more words. You’re not allowed to talk anymore.” 

“Oh, orders _outside_ the bedroom? We tried that a time or two but I’m not very good at listening.” 

James groans again, snatches the cotton balls and puts them back on the shelf with a grumbled, “shameless. Fuckin’ _shameless_ ,” that has Brett cackling.

Just for the jokes, he makes Brett pay for everything _and_ buy him a milkshake. 

At home, while they’re putting everything away, he notices Aleks looking over the lube with approval and has to go take a cold shower. He hears Brett laughing for at least five minutes.

-

“Hey.” 

James grunts, turns deeper into his pillow and pulls the blanket closer. He’s _sleeping_. 

“Angel,” the voice tries again so James waves a hand awkwardly until he finds something solid enough to shove against and pushes weakly.

“No.” 

“Hey, come on.” Aleks pulls the blanket off of his face, fingers warm and gentle where they brush his skin. “Just for a second.”

“ _What_?” He demands, sleep making him waspish, but his ire only seems to make Aleks more amused.

“I’m coming for you in your weakest hour,” Aleks explains, brushing a wayward curl from his face before James cracks an eye open to glare at him. 

“The sun isn’t even up, Aleksandr.”

“Weakest hour,” Aleks reminds him. He’s sitting on the edge of James’ bed and that’s - almost more than James can handle after just waking up from a restful sleep. Aleks and Brett keep boundaries, as hard as it might be to believe, and neither of them have ever breached the boundary of James’ bed before. They both tend to leave the little corner he’s claimed as his sleeping space in the alcove alone, but here Aleks is _sitting_ in the same bed James is laying in.

It’s all very Puritan, but even the suggestion after how on edge James has been with them lately is a lot to bear and he has a feeling Aleks knows it. 

“What do you want?” He clears his throat and starts to sit up. Aleks shushes him, pushes him gently back to the mattress and tucks the blanket up again, covers the skin that had begun to goosepimple in the cooler air of his studio. 

“Just a question.” Aleks leans down a little to look at him better and James blinks up at him, blurry vision slowly clearing from sleep so that he can get a better look at him. He looks like he’s been awake for awhile, his hair a mess and his eyes sharp as ever. His roots are starting to darken again and James is reminded of the wedding picture, of Aleks as a brunet. He’d looked good, but the blond gives him an edge that James had never really thought hair color could do for a man before. 

He reaches up before he can think about it, smoothes down a few spikes that have found their way into looking even more ridiculous than usual. Aleks smiles, this tiny thing that makes James’ heart flutter because he’s never really seen it before. Seen something so soft and real and fond on Aleks’ face directed at _him_. 

“Ask your question so I can go back to sleep, Aleks. Some of us have _work_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aleks rolls his eyes, soft smile replaced by something James is more used to on him. “It’s just, you know. Valentine’s Day is coming up.”

“I’ve noticed.” Because he’d seen all the reds and pinks and chocolates at the store with Brett last week. “If you’re looking for recs or something, I don’t-”

“No, you idiot,” Alek chuckles, quiet because James has a feeling Brett is still sleeping. “No, I know you aren’t the person to go to for all things chic in Los Santos.”

“I know chic,” James defends himself, though it is a lie, and one Aleks obviously doesn’t believe.

“Of course you do, angelcakes.” Aleks pats his cheek and then goes back to stroking along the ridge behind his ear, the crescent under his eye with this soft touch that sucks all the annoyance out of James before he can voice is. 

“Brett and I figured we should spend the night at a hotel,” Aleks continues, voice still soft. “Use up that fancy lube you two picked out without bothering you with our deviancy.”

“We did not _pick it out_.” James flushes hot. “You make it out like I - like we, I mean, I didn’t-”

“James,” Aleks stops him and his actual name on Aleks’ tongue is enough to quiet him down. James doesn’t like that Aleks has that kind of power over him, but he’s yet to find a way to stop it and he’s beginning to think there isn’t one. 

“My question-” Aleks leans down again, closer, until he’s so close James thinks he’s about to be kissed. “Is if you’ll come to dinner with us.” 

“You want me to third wheel your V-day date?” James blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog from his brain, so he thinks it is fair that he misses the shift in Aleks from soft to firm. Aleks shifts so fast and so often that it’s hard to always follow what kind of mood he is in, though James is getting better at it. 

“You,” Aleks slides his hand down to hold his chin, tilt his face up until they’re making uncomfortably direct eye contact. “Are _never_ third wheeling with us.”

“Oh,” James says, because he has nothing else he can say in the face of that. He feels - sleepy, still, but awake. Warm in his chest, his heart fluttering but calm. He feels safe, even with this shark leaning over him with his hands on his face and his eyes intent on him like he’s prey. He feels safe _because_ of this shark leaning over him. 

Aleks hums his agreement, lays a light kiss on his cheek and then his nose and then his other cheek and James has to close his eyes against the urge to kiss him back.

“Can we take you on a date, angel?” Aleks asks against his cheekbone. 

“That isn’t my name.” 

“Can we take you on a date, _James_?” Aleks repeats without hesitation and James carefully, slowly, nods just once. 

“Thank you,” he thinks Aleks says, so quiet that he can’t be sure. He does feel the kiss though, chaste and close-mouthed against his and he can’t resist this time, folding his hand along the side of Aleks’ neck and pressing into it for a brief, torrid second. 

And then Aleks is gone, from his space and his bed, and James doesn’t follow him with his eyes because he _can’t_. He just pulls his blanket back over his head and buries his face in his pillow to try to get some sort of rest before work. 

-

“That was a dirty trick,” he says to Brett with narrowed eyes when he wakes up to find Aleks gone - probably the roof, where he’s taken to spending hours a day - and a lovely breakfast laid out on the table. 

“Did it work?” Brett asks and James can’t help the sigh of disgust that makes a grin break out across his stubbled face. 

“Shut up,” he says dully and chomps into a piece of toast. 

“Didn’t say a word,” Brett says with barely contained amusement. James hates them both.

-

“Oh no,” he says when he gets to work, looks at the calender and _realizes_. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ. I’m going to hell.”

As if he hadn’t known that already. 

He hadn’t realized. Even when they’d been placing sheets over the saints, he hadn’t realized the _days_ \- 

_Hey_ , he types out when he gets a short break to disappear into the bathroom, _bad news about the whole v day thing_

He gets a response faster than anticipated. 

_U r not dumping us three days before v day._

_Its ash wednesday! I wont be out until late. You dont have to wait up for me. We can go out the day after?_

_We’ll wait_

_Seriously?_

_We’ll wait, seriously._

He stares at the texts, heart racing, trying to think of what to say.

 _Okay_ , he ends up going with. And then a heart, because what the fuck ever, and then he puts his phone away and refuses to look at it for the rest of the day.


	7. Confess my love, I'd know where to be (part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VDAY
> 
>  
> 
> we will be going on a hiatus while i start the next half of this fic (im guessing there will be about 3 parts, 40k-ish maybe, left! life is wild for me so it may be a little bit but i promise to get it out as fast as i can <3)

James sits in the front seat of his car for a long time, hands on the wheel as he stares out the window. He’s usually tired after nights like this, after intense Masses and families wanting to talk and congregates coming to confession until late. It’s bordering on eleven but he has a text that says Aleks and Brett are waiting patiently and there’s still static in his fingers, making his heart beat faster and faster with every passing second. 

He’s excited, but he also feels kind of sick. He’s been fasting all day and his stomach is twisting for _something_ outside of a bland wafer but he also can’t get his body to leave the car. He feels a fluttering in his gut. He’s not tired at all.

A date.

He’s an idiot.

His phone buzzes and he chances a look at it, sees the text notification and carefully unlocks the screen to read it.

_We see your car in the lot, angel. Come up._

Fucking Aleks. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath and pulls the phone closer, presses the call button. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Brett answers on the first ring, and his voice is warm. It settles something in James. Something that had whispered that maybe Brett hadn’t been all that interested in James coming along tonight. 

“Hi,” he says and then doesn’t say anything else because his tongue is too twisted. 

“Everything okay?” 

“I think so.” He curls his fingers in the material of his cassock, rubs it between the pad of his thumb and side of his pointer. “Just… just nervous, I think.”

“We makin’ you nervous?” Brett asks, but he isn’t teasing. James is deeply grateful that Brett was the one to answer, suddenly. He always makes James feel calm.

“I’m… this is just breaking, I’m-” James takes another deep breath, calms himself as best he can. “Brett, I don’t know what to do.” 

For just a second, he’s overwhelmed with how much he misses Joe and his mom. He hasn’t seen either of them in so long and hasn’t spoken to them much at all since all of this started. He hadn’t even told them about Frank, let alone that he’s _friendly_ with two new men. Joe hadn’t been particularly happy about him joining the church but he’d never once turned his back on him. He would know what to say to James, would be able to tell him if what he was doing was - not okay, because it fucking wasn’t - but. 

But… he doesn’t know. Joe would just _know_ what to say. 

“Well,” Brett says gently, “first step might be to come upstairs.”

“I took _vows_ ,” James drops his voice. “I took vows and this is breaking all of them.”

“If it helps-” There’s a shuffling on the other end of the line, Aleks’ voice a quiet rumble that James can’t quite make out. “It’s just dinner, James. We aren’t expecting anything else.”

“It’s not just dinner for me,” James admits and it makes his chest ache. “It was just dinner two months ago. It’s not just dinner for me anymore.”

“...yeah.” Brett takes a deep breath, himself. “It’s not just dinner, is it?”

“I really… I really like you. Both of you.” James rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I like you both too much. I’m not supposed to like you, ya’ know? I’m not supposed to-”

“James.” Brett’s voice is enough to shut him up, soothe the panic even as it starts to well. “We both like you, too. We want to take you on a date. But we don’t want you to feel forced, okay? That’s not what the first date is gonna be.”

“I don’t feel forced.” James swallows. “It’s not that I feel forced, it’s that I want it too much.”

He cradles the phone to his ear with both hands, hiding in the dark of his car and the parking lot. 

“Yeah?” Brett asks and James can hear the smile in his voice. It makes his own lips twitch, as complicated as he feels inside.

“Yeah.” 

“Come upstairs, James,” Brett says. “We’re waiting for you.”

James looks out of his window at his building, up toward where he knows his apartment windows are. He can see the lights on through the pulled blinds, sees someone standing in the window. It’s too far and the light isn’t on his side to make out who it is, but the shape leans more toward Aleks than Brett. 

“Okay,” he agrees, and he hangs up. 

The walk up to the apartment feels too long and too short all at once. 

Brett is standing in the doorway when he gets to his floor, leaning against the door jamb with a smile. He offers an arm as James approaches and James doesn’t really think about it. He just keeps moving forward until he crashes into Brett’s chest, who wraps both arms around his shoulders and squeezes him tight. 

“Welcome home,” Brett says into his hair and James feels soft, warm and… happy. He hasn’t heard a genuine _welcome home_ in a long time.

“Shut up,” he grumbles but hugs Brett back, hiding his face in his neck. He smells _good_ , he must be wearing something, and James can’t help but inhale slowly.

“Smells good?” Brett asks with amusement, rubbing the back of his neck with firm fingers. It feels nice, working at the tight knots of stress that have settled into the top of James’ spinal cord, and he leans farther into him and sighs. 

“Yeah.” He nods shakily and lets Brett pull him inside and shut the door. 

“Are we a little calmer now?” Brett asks when they’re safely in the apartment and James straightens up enough to clear his throat and nod. “Good. Aleks was going to skitter down the side of the building like a spider to go get you if you waited any longer.”

“Hey!” Aleks says from out of sight and James looks up to find him popping the collar of his blazer as he comes out of the bathroom. “I would have used the stairs.”

James blinks at him, takes in the black ensemble he’s put together. James has seen him in a lot of styles, but never a _business-casual_ look like this. He’s found himself some black slacks that James is pretty sure weren’t in the duffle bag he and Brett have been living out of for the last couple weeks and paired them with a charcoal dress shirt under a black blazer. When he looks at Brett, he sees that they’re almost opposite in color scheme again, with Brett in white skinny jeans and a short-sleeved button up covered in pale blue pinstripes. James doesn’t know who told Brett those sleeves would hold against his muscles but they were a liar and also must have been looking out for James specifically to have let him see the sight.

“You two look nice,” he finds himself saying before he can stop to think about it.

“Usually you dress up for dates.” Aleks gives him a once over and doesn’t look displeased. “Though I see you came dressed to tease.”

“Once again-” James brushes himself off and draws himself up. “You have a gross kink, Aleksandr, and you need help.” 

“I’ll say.” Aleks leers. “Will you help me, angelcakes?”

“I’ll help you right over a cliff,” James sniffs back and begins to unbutton his cassock as he walks toward his dresser. “You guys didn’t have to wait. Nothing is gonna be open by the time we leave.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Aleks scoffs, turning to let him pass through the gap between the wall and the rail that separates his little sleeping area from the rest of the studio. “Just trust me. Get cleaned up, get dressed, and we’ll take you out for a night on the town.”

“You’re just lucky I have tomorrow off,” James scoffs right back. “Or it would be a run to Taco Bell and then to bed for me.” 

“To _bed_.” Aleks presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Let us take you to dinner first, at least,”

“Fuck off.” James chucks a shirt at him and takes advantage of Aleks laughing as he catches it to strip off his cassock and lay it across the dresser. It feels like a weight off his shoulders, both the fabric and the meaning of wearing it. He feels like himself now, just in his work slacks and an undershirt. 

He doesn’t have many nice clothes. He doesn’t often have need for them and he’d sold most of his shit when he’d come to the church, used it to make his down payment and first month’s rent while he was waiting to get his first paycheck. What he does have, though, he keeps in his bottom drawer, neatly folded. 

It’s just an extra pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt but he pulls them out carefully, strokes the soft material of the shirt unthinkingly for a few seconds while he’s crouched in front of the dresser. 

Brett and Aleks are sitting on the couch when he walks into the bathroom, Brett with a beer in hand and Aleks leaning against his side and playing on his phone while Brett watches TV. James pauses for just a second, takes in the picture of them on his couch, waiting for him.

He closes the door before he can think about why his heart is pounding so hard. 

He takes his time in the shower as much as he can. He wants to be _clean_ so he scrubs his entire body, conscious of the fact that he’s been sweating in cotton all day and probably smells like it. He even washes his hair and then carefully trims his beard and mustache in the mirror after he’s stepped out, stares at himself when he’s done and wonders what the fuck he’s doing even while he’s doing it. 

He’s doing stupid, _stupid_ shit, is what he’s doing, but he can’t help it. He wants. He _wants_. 

He doesn’t use cologne often, but he figures tonight is a special occasion so he carefully applies some to his neck before he dries his hair with a towel and wraps it back into a bun so he can get dressed without heavy curls leaking water all over. 

He doesn’t look like himself, he thinks, when he’s finished and looking himself over in the mirror. He looks… put together, in a different way from usual. There’s a flush to his face that he knows is from the hot water and steam of the bathroom but feels like is coming from inside of him, makes him look _alive_. 

They’re still on the couch when he finds them, straightening his shirt collar out. Brett’s got a white bow-tie around his neck that James missed on his first look and Aleks looks nearly asleep as he walks out but they both perk up at the sight of him and it makes him smile. 

“Ready?” he says, more a question, and spreads his arms a little to see if they approve. 

“Christ give me strength,” Aleks says under his breath, just loud enough for James to hear, and he gives him a warning glare that is received by a grin. 

“You look...good,” Brett says, standing up and coming closer to look him over. “You shaved.”

“I’ve been told that you usually dress up for dates, so I thought I’d make an effort.” James shrugs and accepts it when Brett offers a hand. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Trust.” Aleks rubs his palms on his pants as he stands up, practically vibrating. “Just trust me.”

“Okay.” James shrugs again and takes pleasure in the slightly dumbfounded look that comes over Aleks’ face for a split second. It’s replaced by his usual stupid-ass smirk, but James feels smug about it nonetheless. 

People are coming home as they leave and they pass a few couples staggering home, some more handsy than others. James kindly averts his eyes as they pass but Aleks wolf-whistles and gets embarrassed laughter that follows them out of the building.

“Ass.” Brett nudges Aleks as soon as the doors close again, but it’s fond and more amused than annoyed. 

“You know it.” Aleks winks, the pale lamps that illuminate the front of the building casting shadows across his light skin and hair, washing him out and making his clothes seem so much darker. He almost looks sinister, sharp eyes and looming shadow. James wants to move closer to him. Without letting himself think about it, he does, letting their hands brush as they walk across the lot. Aleks catches his pinky with his without making a big deal out of it and the three of them finish the short walk to his car linked together by their hands. 

-

James kind of likes sitting in the back of the Lambo. It’s a bit cramped, but he doesn’t mind and it gives him a nice view of Aleks and Brett in the lights of the city as they drive, lets him have some time to sit back and listen to the quiet and relax. 

“You hungry?” Aleks glances at him through the rearview mirror. “Don’t tell me you snuck too many wafers, fucker.”

“It’s Ash Wednesday.” Brett looks at him knowingly through the mirror too. “I bet you haven’t eaten.”

“No.” James shakes his head. “I haven’t. I’m fuckin’ starved.”

“No meat, though, huh?” Brett asks rhetorically, smirking at his husband. “Looks like it’s two-to-one tonight, _babe_.”

“Ugh.” Aleks wrinkles up his nose. “Fuckin’ rabbit food, I’m telling you it’s not enough for either of you. Why’s God gotta take everything good away?”

“He doesn’t take everything good away.” James frowns. “It’s something we _choose_ to do.”

“What are you giving up for Lent, then?” Brett cuts whatever Aleks is about to say off and James hesitates. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I haven’t really… I’ve been distracted. I haven’t decided.”

“Give up the cloth,” Aleks jokes and makes an _okay, I deserved that_ face when James kicks his seat. 

“Are you observing?” he asks Brett instead of responding to Aleks and Brett gives him a look that answers his question and makes him grin at the same time. 

“I live a life of decadence, sweetheart.” Brett smiles this slow thing that twists his lips - something close to that shark smile of Aleks’ but not quite. “There’s nothing that matters to me I’d be willing to sacrifice.”

James, without quite knowing why, has a feeling Brett means _him_. 

“Ah,” he says, because his tongue is suddenly three sizes too big for his mouth. 

“What did you give up last year?” Aleks asks when James doesn’t give a real answer. 

“Uh.” James swallows, tries to get his head back on straight as Aleks makes a turn onto a little street that’s quieter than the main drag. “Last year… last year, I gave up alcohol. I hadn’t really picked up the habit of it again until you two drunkards filled my apartment with it.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Aleks says smartly and the car dips on an incline that takes them into a parking structure. 

Aleks pulls into a spot not too far from the entry and James takes the chance to look around a little while the three of them are straightening out their clothes and Aleks is locking up the Lambo. It looks like a pretty simple space, but the cars are all lavish and well-kept.

Even just the parking lot looks expensive, James realizes.

“Exactly how much am I about to let you blow, Aleks?” he asks as he admires a nearby Bentley. 

“Exactly as much as you deserve.” Aleks catches him around the waist and pulls him close, warmth radiating from him like a furnace. James blinks a few times, caught off guard by the pleased look in Aleks’ eyes, and finds himself giving in without really thinking about it. 

“This _one_ time,” he tries to insist, but Aleks just grins at him and starts to lead him toward an elevator without a response. Brett follows at his other side, a warm hand on his lower back, just below where Aleks’ arm is looped. He feels caught between them, a fly in their web slowly being wrapped up in silk.

He feels like he should be fighting it, or at least fighting harder, but he’s been fighting for months now and he knows a losing battle when he sees one. The fear that had filled him in his car earlier that night feels far away and almost confusing to think about now. 

He’s not scared of them. 

The elevator goes up with a ding but no cheesy music. James isn’t surprised to see a fancy foyer when the doors open up for them, all marble floors with dark patterns stained in and high glass ceilings lined through with golden supports. There’s a small, quiet little fountain in the middle of the room built into the floor and James blinks at it stupidly for a long, hard second.

“There’s a fountain in the floor,” he says, because he feels like he needs to say it. 

“Please don’t fall in.” Brett steers them in a wide berth around the fountain but James can’t help but crane his head to keep it in view.

“It’s just unnecessary, though,” James reasons and pinches Aleks when he laughs at him.

“Ow - hey, don’t _pinch_ , motherfucker!” Aleks pinches him back and James nearly goes for his side again until Brett’s hand lands heavy on the back of his neck. He can see Brett’s other hand on the back of Aleks’, Brett clearing his throat pointedly, so he reluctantly gives up plans on retaliation. 

“If you’re both done acting like children.” Brett leans between them. “I think we have reservations.”

“Okay, okay.” Aleks puts up both hands. “I give.” 

“He started it,” James says, even though he knows it’s childish. He _feels_ childish, giddy in his guts in a way he hasn’t felt in - God. In years. He knows his grin is giving him away, but he can’t _help_ it. 

“I’ll finish it too,” Aleks says warningly, but it’s a tease and James knows it. 

“Sure,” he says with as much condescension in his voice as possible and watches the way Aleks starts to respond on instinct before Brett clears his throat even louder to make him stop. 

They’re the only ones in the foyer apart from a man in a tux behind a podium, who looks like he’s just waiting for them to speak to him so he can go sit somewhere and get off his feet. Poor fuckin’ dude, working on Valentine’s night. 

“Three for Hundley.” Aleks taps the top of the podium. “We’re a little early.” 

“Ye of little faith,” James says under his breath and gets Brett squeezing the back of his neck in response, a silent but not unfriendly warning that just makes the butterflies get _crawlier_. 

A _date_. They had made a reservation for three people at a place like _this_ on _Valentine’s Day_. With _him_. 

“Right this way, sirs.” The waiter smiles politely and then James is being swept into a beautiful dining room - all high ceilings and quiet orchestral music and a smattering of richly dressed patrons eating richly decorated foods off richly decorated china - and right back out of it, into a private room.

There is a table, circular with a crisply pressed white cloth draped over it, and three sets of plates and glasses already in place.

It’s a dim room, with its own quiet music drifting from somewhere that James can’t see, and he has to just stand in the double doorway and stare because he thinks this might be a joke.

Aleks doesn't let him take it in for long. 

“Fancy, right?” he says smugly and guides James into the room with Brett not too far behind. 

They don't pull each other’s chairs out, at least, so James doesn’t have to go, like… fight a bear to affirm his manhood, but. 

But.

“Is this what you two do every Valentine's?”

“No.” Brett waves the waiter away and pops the cork out of a proffered wine bottle himself. “This is a _special_ Valentine's.”

“No, not because of Lent,” Aleks says before James can make the joke and it makes James flush despite himself.

“You're both fakes. What kinda loan sharks even are you?”

“Angelcakes.” Aleks leans back in his chair, snaps his menu open and then slides it to James with a secretive smile. “Just wait until we're actually Faked. You’ll be eating like this every night.”

“What does that mean...” James touches the glossy exterior of the menu. “‘Faked’?”

“Nothing,” Brett cuts in, glaring at Aleks. “Nothing you need to worry about. It's a business term.” 

“Does it have to do with that thing Truman said? About you two hooking up with the Fakes?” James pushes, though he doesn’t know why. The more he knows, the worse off he is. He wants to stay ignorant, wants his suspicions to stay unconfirmed as much as he wants to _know_. 

“Yes.” Aleks takes a drink of his wine, dark red and probably fruit-sweet. He shrugs when Brett gives him another look. “What? He's gotta know at some point. Safer if he's prepared, right?”

“He has to prepare _now_?” Brett asks with a frown and then sighs when Aleks only takes another drink. 

“Order,” Brett gives in. “Then we can talk. Not exactly info for the waiters to have.”

James looks down at his menu, nervous to continue the conversation but glad of the interruption. 

“What’s good here, then, Fancy Pants?” He side-eyes Brett. “Think the shrimp's as good as Outback?”

Brett cracks a smile, tension breaking across the table, and leans over to go down the menu with him. He’s as thorough as Aleks was with the Outback menu, promising that James doesn't have to worry about price, to just pick what he wants and let them worry about the bill.

James feels Aleks watching them and his brown eyes are even darker than usual as he admires them every time James glances his way. He's hiding his mouth behind the red of his wine, but James can see the smile in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

James orders the shrimp and Brett orders some veggie stir fry with a side of fruit salad. He isn’t shocked when Aleks orders the biggest steak as rare as they'll allow. James has kissed Aleks a handful of times, but never deeply enough to know if he has teeth as sharp as his smile suggests.

He has to guess so. Perhaps he should kiss him more.

They make small talk as they wait for their food, about James’ day - cleaning, two Masses, helping to council a family dealing with some rebellious kids - and then about an intense episode of Judge Judy that Brett got way too caught up in and a funny story that Aleks has about taking Ein for a walk that morning. 

It’s nice. It’s so simple and _nice_ , and James doesn’t care about the fancy restaurant or the day or the time, he doesn’t care about the pretty drinks or the good wine or about the nice clothes. He just likes that Brett brushes their hands together every chance he gets until James finally just twines their fingers together, and he likes how warm he feels when he listens to Aleks genuinely laugh this wheezing, joyful sound. 

He _likes_ them. There’s no hiding it, not from himself and certainly not from them, when both of them can read him like a book. He’s gone for them and there’s no turning back. He’s going on dates, they’re in his apartment. He dreams about them. Wants to kiss them, hold their hands, _be_ held.

He’s truly lost, God forgive him. 

“We did promise you an explanation, I guess.” Brett loses his carefree smile once their food is in front of them and they’ve been left alone in their private room to eat. Aleks has gone through a glass already but Brett and James are just sipping at their wine and James has a feeling he’ll be driving the both of them home tonight. He can feel Brett’s grip on his hand tighten before starting to pull away so he closes his fingers tighter around his to stop him. Brett gives in with a tiny smile and James feels _right_.

“You know who the Fakes are, angel?” Aleks asks, quiet, watching him, and James hesitates. It’s like being under a spotlight at the best of times when Aleks puts his eyes on you and this time is no different.

Afraid to give anything away, James just nods his head once. Everyone in the city knows who the Fakes are, afterall, and it isn’t suspicious that he would have at least that much information. 

“Well, Brett and I, see… we started out in this work years ago now. Long time.” Aleks cuts into his steak and the smell wafts over to James, makes his mouth water to the point that he has to actively swallow. Aleks notices, because of course he does, and with a smirk he offers a piece of meat to James across the table.

Delicately, James wraps his lips around the fork and pulls the piece off, grinning a little at Aleks’ surprised smile.

It’s _juicy_ , tender and delicious, and he would moan at the flavoring if not for the current topic of conversation and the fact that he doesn’t want to humiliate himself in front of them for the _n_ th time.

Aleks clears his throat and Brett holds on tight to his hand as he continues. “We got involved with the Fakes a couple years back and have been working our way up ever since. We’re close to the next level, close enough to actually start working with the big boys if we can just catch their attention. Right now, we just collect on the big debts that people owe the Kingpin and carry out his… loan forgiveness policies when the order comes down, but if we bring in this much from a place as high profile as your church…”

“Aleks is convinced that this is gonna be our in,” Brett adds. 

“It will be. It isn't often a duo brings in half a mil. Well… a trio.”

“Duo.” James frowns and shoves a piece of shrimp in his mouth and it makes Aleks laugh. 

“Duo and a special friend,” Aleks amends and it doesn't appease James or his nerves but he lets it go. 

“So what happens when you bring in the money?” He pokes at his side salad. “When you get Faked?”

“Better jobs,” Brett answers. “More money, better connections. No more collecting the dry cleaning, that's for sure.”

“Or playing messenger.” Aleks frowns, thoughtful. “We wanna go places in this town, and you have to be Faked to do that.”

“It's a power move.” James pushes at his side of rice, trying not to let his anxiety get the better of him. So close to the Fakes, even just sitting here with Aleks and Brett. He hasn't done anything to get himself discovered, not yet, but still. The idea of being so close is terrifying.

Not for the first time, he has to wonder if knowing they were eating dinner with NOVA would put him in any more danger than he is already in. Is moving up, going places in this city, worth giving him up to the Kingpin?

“Something like that.” Aleks nods and Brett runs his thumb over the back of James’ hand.

“Still not feeling great about this, I bet,” he hedges and James smiles ruefully. 

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I know they'll make it all back up from the congregation and community and stuff, but… I dunno.”

He sighs, sets his fork down. 

“Let's just say I wasn’t exactly… good. Before I joined the church. This was supposed to be a new start. Now, here I am… exactly like I was.” 

The silence that settles over them is somber and James downs the rest of his wine. Maybe they'll Uber home tonight.

James sets his glass down and Aleks refills it almost before it hits the table, much to James’ appreciation. 

“Just remember what you said,” Brett offers, quiet. “New vows, new man. I’m sorry you’re caught up in this but… thanks for helping us. And I’m glad we met.”

James doesn’t hesitate to take Brett’s hand again. He’s felt so torn for so long, but this, at least, is easy. “I’m glad we met, too.”

“Me three.” Aleks leans in and pokes at James’ rice and James has to fork-fight him away, stifling a smile at Aleks’ antics. “Now, no more sad talk.”

“What should we talk about, then?” Brett says blandly and is already prepared to swat Aleks’ hand away when he gives up on James’ shrimp for some of Brett’s strawberries. 

“Let’s talk about… movies. Fuck, marry, kill; Animated Spiderman, McGuire, or Garfield.”

“That’s not movies, Aleksandr.” 

“That’s not an answer, _James_.”

“Kill Garfield,” Brett starts thoughtfully, and James laughs.

-

They don’t have to Uber back, but Brett’s the one to drive. Aleks sits in the back this time and James spends most of the ride with the windows down, feeling the wind whip against his face, grinning every time he feels Aleks’ fingers dance across the back of his neck. 

None of them are drunk but Aleks is just tipsy enough to get handsy as they walk inside - so, not so tipsy at all. 

He walks with his arm around James’ waist, fingers clever where they’ve tricked James into letting him hold his hand. Brett walks a bit ahead and is the first to get to their door, unlock it, though he doesn’t open it as the three of them stop.

It sort of feels like a goodbye. James remembers that they’re going to a hotel, that he’s going to spend the night alone in his studio for the first time in weeks. That there won’t be any random texts or Aleks harassing him to eat together or come home early for the night.

As they stand, Brett faces him and brings his hand up to his face. Cups his jaw and quirks his lips when James leans into it.

“Tell me this isn't so I'll try harder to find the money,” he asks quietly, shakily. Begging.

“No.” Brett strokes his cheek with his thumb, palm firm and warm against his jaw, at the base of his head where his fingers are spread through his hair. “No, we didn't take you on a Valentine's date to make you help us faster.”

“Forget the stupid money, idiot,” Aleks scoffs, thumbs hooking through his belt loops. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about the money right now.”

“Yeah?” James breathes out through his nose in a slow, controlled exhale as Aleks reaches out, tugs him in, until they’re so close that he can feel Aleks’ body heat. The hallway is clear and quiet, the dim lights the only thing illuminating anything at all. A bulb had gone out a couple weeks ago but the shadow doesn’t hide what James can see on Aleks’ face. 

“Yeah.” Aleks presses his hands in until they’re properly on his body, gentle on his hips. “So can we kiss you goodnight, angel?”

“I don't-” James starts to say, and finds himself stopping before he can finish the thought. 

Instead, he reaches up to Aleks’ face, cups his cheeks and pulls his face into a soft, light kiss.

Aleks makes a tiny shocked noise and James feels his fingers press harder into his hips, pull him closer until they’re flush together.

He doesn't fight it, just curls an arm around Aleks’ neck, fingers hesitantly brushing at the soft ends of Aleks’ hair. He doesn't dare bury his fingers there, but he flirts with it.

He reaches out with his other hand, finds Brett and tugs him closer until he’s standing against his back and letting his hands join Aleks’ at his sides. Four hands should be overwhelming, touching him, but it feels right. It feels safe.

“Don't go,” he whispers into the quiet space they're sharing, lips brushing Aleks’ as he talks. “Stay here tonight. Don't go to the hotel.”

Brett rests his cheek against James’ hair, huffs a laugh that he feels in his fingers and toes.

“Jealous, angel?” Aleks teases, fingers tapping at his hips like he’s testing the keys of a piano.

“I suppose...” Brett rubs up and down his side, firm and fond, counterpoint to Aleks' still hands. “We can put off the crazy V-day sex for a night or two if you want us to spend it with you, instead.”

“A few beers and Maury is actually a lot more appealing than it sounds at first,” Aleks muses and James swallows hard and shores up his nerves to speak again.

“No.” He slides his hand from Brett’s forearm to his wrist, presses his palm to the back of Brett’s hand and slowly, so slowly he knows they both catch on before he even has Brett’s hand under the hem of his shirt, lets him touch. His fingers are rough, feel like fire on James’ skin, and it's the first time Brett has touched him under his clothes. He has to take a moment, close his eyes and breathe, fingers clenching on Brett’s wrist and closing into a fist just brushing Aleks’ hair.

“No,” he repeats, quiet. “I-I’m saying you don't… you don't need to go to a hotel. If you don't want.”

He hears Brett’s breathing hitch, feels the way his hand spreads out on his skin, fingertips rubbing small circles. 

“You…” Aleks drops his voice, but it's not the seductive tempting tone he usually uses. Instead, it's rough and kind of unsteady. “Angel, beer and Maury are okay with us. We get it, you're, you know. Chaste.” 

“I haven't been chaste since I leaned your name, Aleks.” James finds himself smiling, even if it’s tiny and nervous, his stomach in knots. “So… so we can go inside and crack open a few cold ones with the boys and watch Maury or whatever, if you want. Or… or we can pull the couch out because my bed won't fit three and you can put your money with your mouth has been the last couple months, huh?”

“Are you sure?” Brett finally speaks up and his voice is cautious even as his hand is shameless, running up his side, across his chest, down his stomach, scratching gently until he has James shivering and squirming. “You don’t have to, James. We’re happy like this, if it’s all you want from us.”

“I _want_ ,” James finds himself saying before he can stop himself, every word ringing truer than most of the things he’s been saying for the past few weeks, “You two to take me to bed, Brett.”

“Yeah?” It’s Aleks’ turn to ask. He doesn’t let his hands join Brett’s under James’ clothes, just holds him close, brushes his lips to James’ jaw. “You _sure_ , angel?”

“Yeah.” James nods, makes himself meet Aleks’ eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Aleks takes a deep breath, clears his throat. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

“Not so smooth now, huh?” Brett hums, tucking his chin over James’ shoulder. “Where’s your silver tongue, Aleks?” 

“Don't think you're safe just because James is here,” Aleks warns and there’s that dark voice, the one James had only heard a few times, all of which when he was hiding under his sheets.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Brett smiles against James’ jaw, the scruff he’s allowed to grow for a couple weeks tickling against James’ beard. 

Aleks opens the door with steady hands and James lets Brett lead him through, lets himself be pushed against the wall and kissed for all he’s worth. Brett refuses to stop touching him under his shirt, like he’s worried he’ll never get the chance again. 

Even with the urgency behind it, he’s gentle; fingertips rubbing through the hair on his belly, squeezing at the softness at his hips, daringly thumbing one of his nipples. James feels him shiver at his reaction, a cut off _ngh_ of surprise and clasping hands on Brett's shoulders. 

He submits to it all, closes his eyes and kisses back with all he has. He doesn't understand the urgency, but he reciprocates with little hesitation even if he keeps his touches above Brett’s clothes. This is finally the permission he’s been withholding from himself every time one of them kissed him, to touch back. He feels the muscle of Brett’s back, the give of his belly and slight curve of his waist, the tenseness of his arms and hand where he’s holding on to James’ waist. He doesn't wander past Brett's waist, something about not having one of then telling him he can stopping him, but he finally gets to trail a hand down his chest, feel the firmness of his pecs and the swell where his jeans are digging into his stomach. 

He would happily stay there for the rest of his life, were it not for how much he wants Aleks there with them.

Brett’s urgency makes sense when Aleks does join them, though. Aleks only has to say Brett’s name, quiet and low, and Brett reluctantly withdraws with an almost pained expression. 

“Oh, so you _are_ going to listen tonight?” Aleks teases and James blinks open his eyes to look at him, sees that he’s pulled the couch out and piled the comforter and most of the pillows from James’ bed onto the thin mattress while they were kissing. Ein isn’t barking yet, but she is walking around the studio in wide circles, her whole body nearly vibrating. 

“I need to take Ein out,” he manages to say, somehow in English and not some sort of mumbly nonsense.

“You need to come here.” Aleks pats his thigh expectantly. James feels distinctly like he’s called Ein to him like that before, and arousal and anger both swell in his belly. “Brett can take her, can't you, babe? I need to talk to our angel here.”

“Yeah.” Brett nods, clears his throat so he stops sounding like a smoker of twenty years. “Yeah, I can take her out.”

“Okay,” James agrees weakly, because what else is he supposed to do but take the leash off its hanger and hand it to Brett before going to Aleks’ side. 

Tonight hadn't exactly been a suit-and-tie, but Aleks makes the blazer and shirt he’d picked out work too well. James nearly reaches out, but he knows that, at least in this context, Aleks calls the shots. 

James wants Aleks to call the shots.

“Come’re.” Aleks makes a little motion with his hands, like he’s asking for a hug, and James nearly trips over himself in his eagerness. He hears the door click closed but then Aleks is kissing him and he can't hear anything but his own blood rushing in his ears. 

Aleks kisses like he’s signing his signature, like he’s closing a deal. His hands are brands where they hold James’ jaw and neck, thumbs stroking his cheek as he works James’ mouth open. 

James has to grab his arms, dizzy from the intensity, but it's only when he’s let himself loop his arms around Aleks’ waist and pull their bodies flush that Aleks slows the kiss. It turns from passion to gentleness in a process that James isn't shocked by, from Aleks exploring his mouth to close-lipped kisses, to a few pecks while they catch their breath.

“What are we talking about?” he asks, a little dazed.

“Exactly how you want this to play out.” 

James blinks slow, trying to get his head to work through the fog of excitement, nervousness, shame, _want_. “I haven't… done this. I mean. I’ve messed around, but there was-” NOVA. “College, classes, you know, I was busy, and then I joined, you know, joined the - and so-”

“That's okay,” Aleks promises, thumb still lightly stroking his cheek. He looks like himself and like someone James has never met all at the same time, a possessive sort of gleam in his eye that makes James want to kiss him again. “I kinda figured you weren’t gonna be _experienced_. We can take the lead. I'll, uh. Try not to control everything. Kinda intense for your first time.”

“I'm… you know, it's, I'm okay with you… doing that.” James flushes, cuts in sharply when he sees the smirk already beginning. “ _Don't._ I'm not like you or Brett, okay, I like - well. I lik _ed_ pretty vanilla shit. The whole… ordering around thing is new.” 

“Taking orders?” Aleks slowly slides his palm from cradling James’ neck to resting along his throat, presses his thumb to his bottom lip. “Or giving them?”

“I dunno,” James admits, remembers that whine Aleks had torn from Brett, the muffled sounds he’s heard over the past weeks. He knows he wants to hear it again. “Both? Is that an option?” 

“Whatever we want is an option, angel,” Aleks tells him and James pauses long enough to take that to heart.

Part of him is losing his goddamn mind, screaming that he needs to _stop_ before he does something he’ll regret. The rest of him knows that no matter what happens, he couldn’t possibly regret this. That he’s wanted it for too long and can’t resist any longer. That he doesn’t want to resist. 

“I want…” He stops to think, tries to focus with Aleks’ hands on him and their faces so close. “Fuck, I don’t know. I want to trust you two. Can’t I just keep doing that?”

Aleks’ mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything, like he’s at a loss for words. His eyes go wide enough that James worries he’s said something wrong for a moment, long enough for Aleks to collect himself and nod once. 

“Yeah. Yeah, angel, just keep trusting us. We’ll help you.” 

“I know,” James says, because he _does_. 

Aleks leads him to the bed without another word, sits with him on the edge and kisses him. When he slowly lays him back, James goes with it until the pillows meet his back and Aleks leans carefully on his own arm so he doesn’t smother him. 

The kisses are gentle. Slow. They aren’t demanding, but James feels like Aleks isn’t asking permission, either. More like he’s just taking his time. 

When Brett finally comes back, Ein barking happily in toe, Aleks has eked just his finger tips under James’ shirt and James is caught between wanting to kiss him and wanting to make him _touch_ him.

“Don’t torture him,” Brett admonishes, but he sounds rough. 

The real torture is Aleks pulling away from the sweet kisses to grin sharply.

“He asked for it.”

“No, I didn’t,” James argues, but is about as convinced as Aleks is by the words. He kind of had asked, after all. 

Brett just smiles from where he’s leaning against the door, the sound of Ein lapping water in the kitchen the only noise between the three of them for a long three seconds. 

“Come here,” Aleks sits up, much to James’ displeasure, but Brett comes closer and James wants to reach out, wants to touch, nearly forgets the upset just because he’s distracted by how close Brett is now.

“James is gonna undress you,” Aleks tells Brett, like they’d somehow discussed that beforehand, and James gets to watch Brett’s cheeks go just the faintest pink, gets to watch his eyes go dark and wide as they slide to James.

“Yep,” he says. “That’s me. Gonna. Do that.”

“Smooth,” Brett teases, and it reminds James of exactly who they are. Who the three of them are. That they aren’t strangers, not anymore. They’re the men that he’s fallen so hard for. Wants more than anything.

He sits up, Aleks getting out of his way, and finds himself on the edge of the mattress again, legs spread so Brett can stand between them. 

“Hi.” He carefully puts a hand on Brett’s hip, testing, and Brett grins down at him with a sort of warmth that melts him. How could Aleks resist anything Brett asks of him when he smiles like that? 

“Hi,” Brett responds, but doesn’t go on. Instead, he lets James take his time, work up his nerve. Aleks sits behind him, warm arms around James’ waist, pressing kisses to the back of his neck. He doesn’t say anything either.

Finally, James moves his fingers to the button at the bottom of Brett’s shirt. He doesn’t know why that seems less intimidating than the top, but it does. He works his way up, one after another, so slow that it feels glacier, but neither of them complain.

He lets himself explore each bit of skin he exposes, pressing the pads of his fingers in to feel the give and the burning warmth, runs his nails through the furry patches of Brett’s trail, can’t resist sliding his hands under the shirt just to _feel_. Brett closes his eyes at that, inhales deeply, and James can _feel_ his diaphragm moving with it. He works the buttons up his belly, over his ribs, to his chest, to the last one closer to his throat, and then he sits back against Aleks and takes in Brett with his shirt fully undone.

“Beautiful,” Aleks says into the quiet and James nods in agreement. Brett hasn’t opened his eyes since he let them close, but he snorts in amusement instead of saying anything in response.

When James pulls at the collar, Brett obligingly shrugs the shirt off and lets it hit the floor without a worry. James has seen him mostly naked before, that first time he came to their apartment, but the sight still makes him feel lightheaded. 

Brett’s pants are his next challenge and, though there’s only one button this time, it feels infinitely harder. In the end, Aleks slides his palms over the back of James’ hands, tangles their fingers together and acts as his strength to actually reach for the button and undo it. The zip down is so loud it could echo, and the rustle of fabric as James and Aleks tug at the waistband to get them to fall could wake the dead. Brett steps out of them without needing to be asked, stands before them in nothing but a tight pair of boxer-briefs that does nothing to hide the semi he’s got or his toned thighs. 

“Oh,” James manages and actually whimpers when Aleks lays both of his hands flat on the planes of Brett’s thighs. He can feel where his hip bones meet his legs, the dip, the swell of his belly where his underwear is just a little tight. Aleks hooks James’ fingers along the waistband but doesn’t pull for him and James is thankful for it. He needs to shore his defenses, prepare himself, calm down. His body is on fire and far away all at once. He feels overwhelmed and _hungry_. That whine, the one he’s replayed in his head so many times he’s sure he’ll hear it on his deathbed, replays yet again. He wants to hear it so badly.

In the end he pulls himself, removes the last of Brett’s modesty and Brett lets him, stands still and breathing evenly with his eyes closed as his underwear falls to join his pants and shirt and he’s left naked. 

“Beautiful,” James echoes and hears Aleks huff, feels him laugh against his shoulder as he nods. 

James doesn’t need to be led to touch this time. He runs his hands down Brett’s chest, feels the muscle and fat and skin and bone hiding, feels his ribs as he goes down, rubs circles into his stomach and the dip of his pelvis, squeezes lightly at the firmness that are his thighs. That’s what gets his first reaction, Brett twitching right in front of him as he wanders his hands to the backs of his thighs and then up to cup his ass, squeeze again to test his theory. He’s rewarded, another twitch and a soft exhale, Brett’s head tilting forward.

“Hold still, baby,” Aleks orders, arms so tight around James that he feels like a python.

“Sorry,” Brett says and James is surprised to hear how rough he sounds. 

“Brett,” James says, because he wants to, and Brett shivers. 

“Sorry,” he says again, and James feels Aleks smirk against his skin. 

“Open your eyes,” Aleks says and Brett does, slowly, blinking fast like he has to clear his vision. When their eyes meet, James has to find the air in his lungs again because Brett steals his breath away, pupils blown and wanting. Looking at James like _he’s_ the reason he wants so badly. 

James is caught in it, can’t move, can’t speak for what feels like forever. Instead, he just tugs Brett closer, closer, until he can lean forward and press the lightest kiss to his belly. 

“James,” Brett says roughly, like it’s all he can say. James knows the feeling. 

“That was fun.” Aleks unwinds his grip around James’ waist, rubs his sides roughly like he’s warming him up. “Now it’s your turn, angel.” 

“My turn.” James blinks a few times and then goes so hot he nearly passes out. “Oh. I forgot.”

“Yeah.” Aleks grins. “I figured. Up, up, stand. Brett’s gonna help you out of those clothes, aren’t you, baby?” 

“Yes, sir.” Brett steps back, breaking James’ hold on his hips and looking vaguely disappointed for it. James is urged up by Aleks until he’s standing and then Brett is unbuttoning his shirt. He’s faster, but his movements are reverent, like he’s sneaking his worship into every brush of skin, every whispered touch.

James stops him at his briefs, instinctive, and Brett doesn’t push. Instead, he gives up his hold on the waistband and just lays his palms flat on his sides while he waits. 

“Aleks,” James gets out and Aleks is there without another word, tilting his face so they can kiss again. Gentle, smooth, reassuring. 

“We can stop,” Aleks reminds him. “Whenever you want, angel.” 

“I don’t want to stop,” James says forcefully, but loses his energy almost before finishing his words, “I just…”

“It’s a lot.” Brett rubs those light circles with his thumbs into James’ sides and James feels himself relaxing, with Aleks’ confidence and Brett’s care focused on him. 

He pushes his own briefs down, joins Brett in his nakedness. He hasn’t been this exposed since he was - fuck. Closer to twenty than thirty - if even then. All of his experience was in drunken fumblings in a car, or the dark of some back room with pot in his lungs. Nothing like this, with lights on and stone sober after a brisk car ride and a nice dinner and two people that he knows care about him. Nothing as vulnerable as this. 

“Thank you,” he thinks he hears Aleks say and then there are _hands_ , stroking his sides, his thighs, his arms. He’s hard, getting harder, and he can feel - can _see_ \- Brett doing the same. He wants Aleks to join them, too, to revel in this skin-on-skin and this feeling of being so open. 

When he says so, Aleks laughs again, and it isn’t his usual laugh but it’s genuine all the same. 

Brett and James undress him together, Brett familiar and confident and James exploring as Brett goes, touching Aleks’ chest and admiring his tattoos openly, grinning at his lack of body hair and kissing him when Aleks fakes affront. 

They fall into bed together - carefully, because it’s still a cheap pull out - and James ends up with his back against the pillows again, kissing Aleks as Brett kisses down his body, does his own exploring. 

“I think...” Aleks says between kissing “...that I want… to wreck you, James.”

“Won’t be very hard,” James admits freely, already squirming under Brett’s lips. He’s got a hand tangling in the sheets, the other half raised because he doesn’t know if he wants to grab at Brett to stop him or at Aleks to hold him closer or at himself to stop from breaking into pieces.

“Good.” 

Aleks kisses him again, just once, and pulls back. 

“Brett, lay down. I think our angel is going to blow you.”

Brett thunks his forehead against James’ hip and, through his own haze of arousal, he can hear the soft groan that just the words drag from Brett’s throat. He has to swallow, his mouth already watering. 

“Sound good, angel?” Aleks asks, brushing curls out of James’ face so they can look at each other. He’s kind of glowing, the light from the apartment and his blond hair and pale skin and dark eyes, his pleased smile. It feels distinctly wrong, to be called an angel by a being looking so holy.

James nods.

“Sounds good.”

“Sounds good…” Aleks raises an eyebrow, trails off, and James flushes.

“Sir.”

Aleks kisses him again in reward, though it’s more just a press of mouths because Aleks is grinning too hard for a proper kiss.

He sets himself up to watch, after, while Brett and James rearrange themselves. This, James has done before, though not while being _watched_ and it’s been… a long time. Still, he knows the general rules and techniques. He wants to make it good for Brett, wants to - if not, impress, then… something. Make him happy.

Brett’s closed his eyes again, had done so as soon as he laid down flat, but James wants to see his eyes, wants to watch his face, so he decides to press his luck. Aleks will guide him back if he hits any lines. “I want you to watch, Brett.” 

Aleks hums, pleased, and Brett makes a broken noise, opens heavy eyes to look at him just like he asked and it makes James feel - powerful. More powerful than he’s ever really felt before.

“Good.” James leans down, not breaking eye contact, and kisses the middle of Brett’s chest. He wants to touch him, and Aleks hadn’t said anything about _not_ doing that, so he does. Lets himself thumb one of Brett’s nipples until he shivers, lets himself lick where his thumb had been just to see his reaction, makes his way down Brett’s body with the same general method of his tongue following his questing fingers. Brett’s good for him, stays still except for widening his legs when James needs to get closer, keeping his hands up by his head. Watching, even as his breathing grows heavier and heavier. 

He’s hard when James finally reaches his groin, lying in the curve of his thigh, flushed red and beading at the tip. 

“Condom?” James blinks, looking up at them, unsure suddenly, and Aleks looks at Brett. James watching them communicate, silently in that way they do sometimes, and then Aleks shrugs. 

“We trust you if you trust us.” Aleks runs a hand through Brett’s hair from where he’s sitting, cross-legged, in the top corner of the mattress.

“Okay,” James says, because he trusts them with everything now - almost, almost everything, just one thing held back and he’d _tell them_ if only they knew to ask. He leans down again, licks the head of Brett’s dick once, tastes the salty pre, has to break his own rule and close his eyes at the bitterness on his tongue. 

_This is what a broken vow tastes like_ , he thinks. And then he does it again.

“Slow,” Aleks says, more a whisper, but James can hear it for the order it is and he follows to the letter. He drags long, slow licks from the base to the tip, adjusting to the taste, the shape, the _idea_. All the while, Brett holds still as a rock, watches obediently, making only the occasional sound of pleasure. 

There are cracks, though. Moments when his thighs shake as James’ tongue works a particular spot, when James can see his eyes squint in effort, when his hands twist into the pillow under his head. When he finally takes the head into his mouth, fists the base with a tight hold, Brett actually curls forward with a wheeze. 

Aleks reacts first, smacking Brett’s hip loudly. “Hold it right there, angel. Just like that. Brett’s breaking the rules, so he doesn’t get a reward.”

James freezes, finds that listening to Aleks is easier than ever. He doesn’t have to think or decide. Just listen, watch the way Brett’s face scrunches up unhappily even as James feels the way he’s starting to lose it through the quakes in his legs. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Brett says tight. “It just - he feels -”

“I’ll bet.” Aleks pats his cheek, “That’s why you’re gonna feel him. Right there.”

James has to swallow or things are going to get _messier_ , and he knows Brett feels it, his tongue flat to the knot of nerves just below the head, knows he can feel how his hand flexes around his base. He wants to suck, wants to take more in, but he wants that _whine_ and he trusts Aleks to help him rip it out of Brett before the end of the night. 

By the time Aleks finally gives him the go-ahead to keep going, his jaw is beginning to ache and he’s had to swallow twice more. Brett is sweating, breathing hard, trying to hold still against the torment of James’ mouth and keep his eyes open and on James like he was asked all at once. 

James, without hesitation, sank down until he couldn’t take anymore. He felt Brett’s toes curl, heard him sob, got to watch his face go slack and then watch the way his lips wrapped around a deep groan. 

“You make it look like he’s the best head you’ve ever got,” Aleks teases, running two fingers in swirling motions along Brett’s chest, eyes flicking between the two of them. “I can’t wait to try it. Think you could take me, James?”

James swallows around Brett, let’s Brett’s higher moan speak for itself. He thinks, by the dark in Aleks’ eyes, that it does.

“Go on, then,” Aleks prompts. “Show us what you can do, angel.” 

James does.

He knows he isn’t the best head Brett’s ever got, that’s for sure. He’s out of practice and he knows he scrapes against the sensitive skin with his teeth at least twice, can’t quite get the sucking down just right, but he remembers to twist his hand as he pumps him, remembers the trick where he relaxes his throat just enough that the back of Brett’s dick hitting it doesn’t make him choke and then swallows. That makes Brett’s hip twitch, makes him gasp James’ name and Aleks makes him freeze again, just like that with Brett’s dick in his throat, makes them both hold still for so long that James is sure he’s going to die here, turn to dust like this with them.

He pops off when his jaw starts to hurt for real, pumps Brett with his hand while he tries to work the ache out, dips a little lower and licks at the tight sac under his dick. Part of him wonders what would happen if he went even lower, if he spread Brett open and ate him out.

Next time, maybe. Next time. He’s sure there will be a next time, without even needing to ask. He wants to do everything with them. Wants to wring out every sound he can. 

It’s messy and inexperienced, but not unsure. James jumps in with both feet and hopes the enthusiasm makes up for the lack of skill. He remembers more as he goes, remembers that trick with his finger against Brett’s taint, remembers how to swallow him all the way down to where his fist is working his base without gagging, remembers to look up so he can see Brett’s face, the struggle playing across his features. 

He stays still, but James can see him straining to, and he likes that he’s made Brett break _twice_ already. He pulls back until it’s just the head again, seals his lips tight and _sucks_ , jacks his shaft fast, slick with his spit and the pre Brett’s been leaking, and there - there it is. That whine, high and pained and begging.

“Please,” Brett breaks, his voice gravelly. “Fuck, please, can I - Aleks - James - I’m gonna, please, _fuck_ -”

“Already, babe?” Aleks pinches at one of Brett’s nipples, smiles approvingly when it makes Brett sob again but doesn’t make him arch up. “Now I really wanna give your mouth a try, angelcakes.”

James just huffs through his nose at him, rubs firm circles into Brett’s taint and gets another delicious _sound_ , a new melody that will play on repeat in his mind for the rest of his life. 

“Please,” Brett wheezes, hands twisting frantically. “Aleks, please, I’m - he’s gotta stop or-”

“Or what?”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ _come_ , Aleks, _please_ -” Brett begs, but his eyes never leave James’ and James would smile if he could. Instead, he just slowly drops down again, licks along the thick vein at the underside, strokes his shaft lovingly as he sucks around him. Brett blinks hard and _shakes_ , legs quivering so hard around James’ shoulders and head that it’s moving the bed. 

“I guess you can...” Aleks pauses. “If James says it’s okay.” 

James hesitates, just long enough that Brett’s eyes start to get dewy with what he thinks might be unshed tears, and then pulls away just enough to smile, kiss the shaft of his dick. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay with me.”

Brett sobs out a _thank you_ that isn’t totally whole, and James readjusts his grip on him, leans over a little to give his arm more room, pumps him fast and firm. He rubs along his taint, behind his balls with his other hand, watches the moment rapture takes him. Aleks doesn’t punish him when he arches this time, spurts of white streaking his stomach thrice, a fourth time, the bed squeaking under his violence. 

And then Brett collapses back into the mattress, panting and shivering and James can’t help but kiss his thighs, stroke his belly as he carefully lets go of his cock and trails those kisses up. When he looks up this time, it’s to make sure Aleks is watching as he licks up the streaks of white. 

“Holy…” Aleks breathes out, near inaudible, eyebrows pinched together, and James grins, makes a show of what is on his tongue before he swallows. Brett makes a weak noise in response and throws an arm over his face.

“He’s a demon,” Brett says, voice still cracking. “You’re a _demon_.”

“I don’t know about that.” James sits up, back aching a little. He wipes at his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the mess of spit, and then arches to stretch out. He’s _hard_ , has been for a long time, but he doesn’t reach for himself. He wants Aleks to tell him to, or to ask him to do something else. He wants to bask in Brett’s afterglow, which Brett wears better than any clothes James has seen on him yet. He’s still shaking, just a bit, and it makes James feel _smug_.

“I do,” Brett says, voice raw, and then has to clear his throat. 

“Here.” Aleks reaches under the bed, comes out with a bottle of water that James hadn’t even realized was there. He uncaps it for Brett, helps him sit up and take a few sips. James doesn’t know what else to do, so he just rubs Brett’s legs, like he’s comforting him. That feels right, with Brett’s eyes a little cloudy and this doped up smile curling his lips. Aleks rubs his back, kisses Brett’s whiskery cheeks.

The heat of everything slowly lowers to a simmer as the three of them sit together, Brett shakily drinking from the bottle and James eventually crawling up the mattress to be closer. He’s welcomed into the space with pleasure, Aleks opening his legs so James can sit between them, lean against his chest and hold Brett’s hand, rub his palm and fingers between his own like he’s trying to regain circulation. Really, he’s just… appreciating. Appreciating touching him, getting to do that. Getting to watch this, be a part of it. 

Aleks hasn’t forgotten about him, though.

His fingers are like snakes, slithering down his arm, under his elbow. They tuck into his side with a touch so possessive that it takes James’ breath all over again. 

“I think it’s your turn,” Aleks says into his hair and James can’t do anything but tilt his head so Aleks can breath against his neck, let himself be held and then _touched_. Aleks wraps his hand around James’ dick like he’s asked permission a thousand times before, like he knows he’s welcome, and James _does_ welcome him. Spreads his legs wider so Aleks has room and hums his pleasure into Aleks’ neck. 

“We’ve got some options here, now,” Aleks continues to talk as he touches, sounding barely bothered at all despite the pulsing heat at the base of James’ spine. “We could get each other off like this. _Or_...” at this he does hesitate, though only for a breath, “I can pull out that self-heating lube and you can see how it feels.”

James… James wishes he could take the time to think about that properly. Give it the time it deserves to come to a decision. 

Instead, he imagines Aleks’ fingers inside of him, of _Aleks_ inside of him, and can’t help but say, “I want you.”

“You have me,” Aleks promises. “Shit, of all things, you have me, angel.”

Brett makes an amused sound from where he’s still sprawled, watching them with half-lidded eyes that light James’ body up all over again. 

“I _want you_ , Aleks,” James repeats, slower, so he can see the understanding pass through Aleks’ eyes. 

“Oh,” Aleks says and James takes an educated guess and leans over the edge of the mattress to feel around on the floor. He finds the box of condoms and the lube, and another bottle of cool water. He comes back up with the lube.

“ _Oh_ ,” Brett says and it makes James laugh.

“How do you want me?” James asks, waving the tube in front of him a few times to snap Aleks out of whatever trance he’s fallen into.

“Lay… lay next to Brett. On your side, with your leg propped up.” Aleks blinks a few times, coming back and taking the lube so James can do as told. Brett welcomes him happily, letting James rest his head on his arm and hugging him close. He helps hitch James’ leg up, rests it on his hip, and James nearly ruts against him at the brush of their bodies together, his still hot and rearing to go even if Brett’s satisfied.

“Just… tell me if it’s too fast or you want me to stop,” Aleks says gently, petting down James’ side a few times and James nods, fighting back the nerves. This is new territory, having things _in_ him. At most, he’s had the tip of a finger from an old fuck buddy that never went too far. He wants _more_ from Aleks and he’s sure he’s going to get it. Brett strokes his hair, pulls him into a soft kiss. _Brett_ is soft right now, in a way he usually isn’t, and James decides to take advantage of it for the time being. He kisses him back, tongues meeting between them, and it’s while he’s distracted that Aleks uncaps the tube and coats his fingers. 

The first prod makes him jump, but Brett has a firm hold on his hip and his lips, and Aleks’ fingers aren’t cold. He doesn’t just shove in, either. Instead, Aleks strokes across his hole, massaging little motions that get his body to relax by increments until Aleks can press the tip of one finger against him and sink inside. James expects him to stop as soon as the first knuckle manages to slip in, but Aleks keeps pushing until his finger is in to the root, feels so deep James wonders if he could feel it if he reached down his throat. 

“Good?” Aleks asks, back to that whisper, and James nods, clutching at Brett’s arm for support. 

Aleks spends… a long time fingering him. The first is only the start, but he takes his time, stretches him properly, rubbing the lube into his walls and bending his finger so James can feel the stretch at such a strange place in his body. The second comes long minutes later, lube refreshed and a little colder than the first but not intolerably. James lays his head against Brett’s chest, muffles his quiet moans into his skin while Brett strokes his back and holds his leg up and Aleks massages the back of his neck. The third is a stretch that hurts, brings everything to a halt while James gets used to it again and fresh lube is applied. It’s more lube than James thinks is probably necessary but he he doesn’t really like pain, despite his apparent new interest in the whole ordering around thing. 

They’re both patient with him, Brett supporting him every moment of the way and Aleks slow and purposeful in every touch he gives. 

It must be closer to sunrise than to sunset by this point, but none of them show signs of tiring. Instead, James feels amped up, feels drills of pleasure every time Aleks brushes against his prostate, feels _good_. Better than he has in years. 

“Aleks,” he manages to unlatch from Brett’s arm long enough to reach behind him, find Aleks’ side and squeeze, “Aleks, enough. I want - you, I’m ready-”

“How would you know if you’re ready or not?” Aleks snorts, but he catches James’ hand, brings it to his lips to kiss the knuckles of each finger.

“I just _know_ ,” James insists and that makes them both chuckle, though Brett at least tries to hide it. 

“Okay, okay,” Aleks gives in. “Relax, angel. I’ll take care of you.”

James grumbles nonsense back, returns his hand to Brett’s arm, where he rubs at the bruises he’s pressed into his skin instead of gripping again.

Aleks does listen, though he takes a minute or two more to stretch him out for longer. James feels _wet_ , full and needy. He’s waited a long time now and it’s been a long, long time since someone else has dragged orgasm from him. He _wants_. Wants Aleks in him, wants to feel him come, wants to lay between them and bask in them. Wants so much.

When Aleks removes his fingers, the nerves do trickle back in, but James ignores them. Aleks has worked him up to the point where he can barely think, just _feel_. He feels empty. He feels like if Aleks doesn’t join them in the next thirty seconds he may actually cry. 

And then Aleks _is_ joining them, warm and firm against his back. James can smell their colognes mixing together, a haze of natural musk and scents he can’t name but likes. He’s burning at the base of James’ spine, wanting as badly as James is. 

“Ready, angel?”

“My name,” James demands, reaching back to find Aleks’ hair, awkwardly run his fingers through the short strands and then hold the back of his neck. 

“Ready, James?” Aleks repeats, soft and without pause and James nods. He finds himself smiling when he feels Aleks’ head against his hole, slick with warm lube. His eyes drop closed but he feels grounded between the two of them, Brett holding his leg up a little higher and Aleks whispering calming little nothings as he slowly sinks into James’ body. James finds himself grinning, tilts his head back against Aleks’ shoulder and laughs a breathless sort of laugh as Aleks slides in to the hilt with a few short thrusts. 

“You did it,” Aleks says, voice proud, and James could cry with how overwhelmingly good the dull ache, the weird pull, the knowledge that he has Aleks _inside of him_ makes him feel.

Free. With them. Soaring. 

“Yeah.” He nods numbly, stroking the short hairs at the base of Aleks’ skull, clutching Brett closer with his other arm because he has to feel them, _has_ to or he’ll fucking explode. He’s stretched so thin, stretched across the universe. They _are_ the universe, in the here and now. Brett and his sweat-soaked skin and Aleks and his burning touch, drowning him. 

He knew he wouldn’t last long. Aleks manages four thrusts, long and deep, trusting Brett’s body to brace James, before James is crying out, feeling tears prickling, shaking like a leaf. 

“Aleks,” he chokes. “Aleks, _Aleks_.”

“It’s okay,” Aleks’ voice is strained. “It’s okay, angel, come on. Come on.”

He thrusts again, deep and all-consuming in his touches, in how he grips James’ thigh right where Brett holds it, in how he bites love marks into James’ shoulders as he moves against him. 

Brett shifts, gives James his thigh to rub his dick against, and James can’t even handle two glides against him before he’s coming. He doesn’t exactly black out - it’s more that he whites out, sight gone with the intensity of his orgasm. He can still feel them, though. Hear Aleks curse in a language James doesn’t know, recognize that it’s Brett whispering pleased little words into his slack lips as he comes against Brett’s belly. He feels Aleks sink into him, deeper than he’d been before, feels his body taught and tense, feels him full-body groan as James’ orgasm milks him, and then hears this high-pitched gasp of almost-pain.

Aleks goes loose, hips still rolling in short, smooth circles that blink stars into James’ eyes as he slowly floats down from the intensity. 

“Oh,” he says and Aleks laughs, crackling and worn. Brett holds him tight, kissing him again and again and James kisses him back as best he can, sweaty and dirty and so happy he’s not sure if he’s glowing or if it was just the orgasm playing with his sight.

“Happy V-day to us.” Aleks nuzzles into his neck, exhaustion plain in his voice.

James can’t even respond. Just nods, turns his head to kiss Aleks as best he can at the awkward angle. 

It’s only later, after Aleks has grabbed a rag to wipe them down and they’ve somehow contorted to fit all three of them in the bed, James wrapped in their limbs and them in his, that he stares up at his ceiling and contemplates what he’s done. 

They’re both breathing deeply, evenly. He’s pretty sure they’re asleep.

It’s the only reason he allows himself the tears, just a handful, slipping down his temples as he blinks.

“Please,” he whispers, begging. “God, please,”

And he has no other words to add to his prayer. Not a prayer of forgiveness, or of regret. 

It’s a prayer for them, to just let him have them for a little longer. To protect them. Keep them safe and with him for as long as God will allow it. A plea for the Lord to recognize how deeply, how irreversibly James has fallen in love with them, and let him have them for as long as he can. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers one last time, and then sleeps.

-

Next Monday, watching the tapestry in the original chapel swish back into place from the shadows of the pew he’d been cleaning when the bishop had come in, he texts the skull and cross bones. His fingers shake as he types.

_I found it_.


	8. My sanctuary, you're holy to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rest of Church (in plot/not!fic form)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends!!!! log time no see!!!! im so sorry!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> i have no idea when this writers block will go away, or when i will have time and energy to write again anyway. but i hate having wip and i love this story so much?? i feel like the ppl who have been really loyal and supportive of me in this fandom deserve more than an incomplete story.
> 
> so im posting what i have written for part 3 as well as the plot to the rest of the fic AND the original pwp that started all of this (a present to Tay from gosh over a year ago now rip).
> 
> i hope to one day come back and write this out properly. until then, i really am so thankful to everyone who has been with me in this fandom, from aaf to diamond boy to my collabs and now priest au. its been so fun and ive met so many amazing people. i dont think ill be writing much at all for the next while but please PLEASE know i appreciate every one of you for all your kindness over the last couple years <3
> 
> its not much, but i hope you enjoy what i have here <3 the first....5k maybe? is Real Fic and the rest after that is plot/not!fic. the chapter after this ist he original PWP, and is a lil canon-noncompliant BUT! yes, i hope you enjoy the ending!

James would have thought that the two of them would demand he show them the hidden money pot that very night. James would have been wrong, but James hasn’t really trusted his thoughts these last few months, anyway.

Afterall, they’d somehow landed him in a pull out couch with two married men.

“No,” Aleks had said, “You’re right. It’s too risky for us to be seen. We’ll check it out in a few weeks, give Brett and I some time to plan.”

He had James mark on the map of the chapel where the safe was, had him describe it to the last detail, and then he’d pinned James to the couch and kissed him until he couldn’t even remember his own name, let alone why he was being kissed

Brett had watched, a deep contentment in every inch of his face, from where he’d been leaning against the counter with a bottle of water and Ein in his arms. He hadn’t had to say anything to let James know he was proud of him and it made his gut squirm to _know_ that Brett was happy with him, that he’d _made_ him happy. Made them both happy.

He’d kissed Aleks back.

-

James still has nightmares about those fingers on the grass. Aleks and Brett like to pretend that everything is normal, that they’re perfectly safe, but James notices that Brett never leaves the apartment for more than three hours, and that they check in with each other regularly. That they check in with _him_ regularly, even when he’s at work.

Except for Valentine’s, Aleks hasn’t left the building, to James’ knowledge. Brett only leaves to get groceries, occasionally do business that James isn’t allowed to know about, and takes Aleks’ car one day and comes back with a new one, still sporty but an older model with a much less distinct paint job a little over a week after James finds the stash.

They pretend, but James recognizes what his paranoia had caused. He recognizes the look of a hunted man, knows the look of a man who isn’t sure if the next day will be his last, knows from how often he’d seen that look in the mirror in the early days, even these days.

It’s in the way Aleks is never quite relaxed until night has fallen and both James and Brett are in the studio, in the way Brett only rarely lets James along for grocery runs and never takes the most direct route to or from the store, in the way Aleks holds James close when he thinks James is sleeping and whispers plans over his head to Brett, what-if scenarios.

Whisking James off to Mexico after they pull the heist has come up more than once, and it had warmed James’ heart and cooled his gut all at once. That they’d want him after and that they thought that they would need to leave the country or stash him somewhere until it was safe.

All because he had shown up at the wrong time, lopped off some guy’s fingers when he wasn’t thinking.

Worms in the grass.

He sits in the shower, when he thinks he can get away with it, scrubbing at his hands. He can still feel the blood on them, on his face, when he thinks about it too hard.

He imagines Aleks or Brett being captured, kidnapped, _takened_. Punished for what he’d done.

They weren’t Fake, he reminded himself. They weren’t Fake, not yet. They’d be safe once they were, once they heisted the church and proved themself to the Kingpin.

The Kingpin.

Another thing that had James sitting in his shower, letting the spray hit the back of his head as he bows his face into his knees. It would be easier for them, for Aleks and Brett, if he told them who he was. If he let them turn him in. They’d be Faked for that, for sure. Giving the Kingpin the man that had nearly caused the death of he and his entire crew before they’d even heard of Los Santos.

James could save them with a simple phone call. If he just gave himself up. The church wouldn’t need heisting, they would be safe against whoever Truman ran with with the Fakes at their back.

But, at his core, James is a coward. He’s a changed man, or he’d thought so. He doesn’t _want_ to be NOVA.

He isn’t sure he wants the priesthood, either, though.

He wants…

He wants them.

The shower runs cold eventually. He doesn’t notice. Just feels the blood on his hands, not just Truman’s but all of the other deaths he’s caused during his time as NOVA, terrified that he might one day have the blood of Brett and Aleks on them, too.

He shivers, pretends it’s the cold water.

Can’t escape the knowledge that he’s trapped himself, that he’s coming ever closer to the cliff he’s been running from since he saw that news broadcast about the ranch burning up.

He clasps his hands together tighter, the rainbow rosary twined in his fingers, beads of water dripping down his face and onto the treated wood, pooling in the swell of flesh where his stomach and thighs met, where the glass charm lay.

He prays; for guidance, for bravery, for _something_ to tell him what he needs to do.

He can’t help but wonder by the time Brett pounds on the door and yells, “Damn it, James, some of us have to _piss_ -” and he still doesn’t have a single clue what to do, if using the rosary they’d gifted to him as he prayed had already given him his answer.

-

“I can’t do this anymore,” Aleks explodes, standing up from the couch in a blur of motion so fast it sends Ein scurrying for the kitchen and nearly knocks the coffee table over.

“Hey!” James snaps, barely managing to catch the half-empty beer bottle Aleks had been nursing for over an hour in time, “What the - _Aleks_ -”

“I’m losing my fucking mind,”

“I know,” Brett says from the kitchen table. He’s been cleaning a gun for at least forty-five minutes. The first twenty had been kind of hot, watching him slowly disassemble the weapon, but then there had been grease and cloth and James had retreated to the couch with Aleks.

James isn’t surprised by the outburst, though he could have done without the beer nearly spilling all over his floor. Aleks has been practically vibrating the last few days and no amount of sneaking to the roof or letting him talk James into breaking his fast or even the sex - still new, insanely intimate, careul despite Aleks’ inner turmoil - had been able to tame him.

Aleks isn’t meant to be cooped up. He needs to keep swimming or he’ll slowly sink, James has to admit, and he’s been watching Aleks’ captivity bite and fray at him for the last few weeks with a growing sense that things would be changing soon.

“No, you don’t,” Aleks clenches his fingers into fists, “You get to go _out_. No offense, angel, but I am so _fucking_ sick of these walls.”

“It’s just for a little longer,” Brett tries to sooth him, finally starting to reassemble his gun, “I’ve got Joel on it, yeah? He’s pulling some strings, but it’s gonna take some time. You just have to hold out -”

“Brett, babe, love of my life,” Aleks takes a deep, solid breath, but it doesn’t relax him even a centimeter, “I have been holding out for nearly two fucking months.”

“There’s nothing else we can do, Aleks.” Brett finishes assembling the gun, the click final in the quiet of the room, with Ein hiding behind his still-booted feet. “It’s a waiting game. You know that.”

Aleks doesn’t respond with anything but a deep growl of frustration, rips a hand roughly through the darkening strands of his hair. It’s getting longer again, it grows like a goddamn weed, and the natural brunet of it is coming out. Carefully, James reaches out and takes hold of one of Aleks’ fists, squeezes it tight between his hands.

“Aleks,” he says, gentle, and Aleks turns on him, eyes dark and _angry_. James knows it’s not anger at him, not really, but it still sends a shiver down his spine. Aleks -

Aleks is a lot of things. James has nightmares about the fingers, yes. But sometimes, less and less, but _sometimes_ , he still has dreams about the night that he’d met them. The look of disdain on Brett’s face, how Aleks had threatened Ein easy as breathing, looking as if he had every intention to go through with his threat.

He’s not scared of either of them, not anymore, but he knows that they have dark sides. Sides he doesn’t have to ever see directed at him again, hopefully.

But he can see it now, lurking behind Aleks’ pupils. He imagines them slitted, imagines the sharpened teeth he’s sure Aleks should have been born with, that would have completed that shark smile of his.

All the same, though, he unfurls Aleks’ fist and tangles their fingers together, brings Aleks’ hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles one at a time.

It’s an apology, maybe. He feels guilty, knows that this is all his fault. That if he’d just _waited_. If he’d just waited for them, none of this would have happened.

He says as much, hopefully, with each kiss, until the tense muscles he can feel even in Aleks’ palm have relaxed just a little and Aleks’ deep breathing has stopped.

“That won’t work on me forever, angelcakes,” Aleks says roughly, but he’s at least calmed down. He’s not so close to erupting anymore.

“Yes, it will.” Brett argues, smug and fond all at once as he joins them by the couch. “He’s your weakest link.”

“Shut up,” Aleks grumbles and puts up a token struggle when Brett pulls him back to the couch. He flops when he sits between them, face grumpy and mutinous until Brett reaches across him to tug at James.

James doesn’t understand at first, still focused on massaging Aleks’ hand, forcing the tension to release, but he doesn’t hesitate to follow Brett’s unspoken instructions. He lets himself be tugged until he’s straddling Aleks’ lap, Brett’s open palm warm where it’s wiggled under his t-shirt, pressed against his lower back.

“So you can’t go out,” Brett says quietly, resting his head on Aleks’ shoulder. Aleks breathes in deep, but not in anger this time. His free hand goes to James’ hip, slides under his shirt like Brett’s had so he can touch James’ bare skin. James lets them do it, can’t speak. He keeps kissing Aleks’ knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the inside of his palm, can’t stop.

He feels like he’s kneeling at the altar, here, in Aleks’ lap. Worshipping a false idol that doesn’t feel false at all.

He presses Aleks’ palm to his cheek, closes his eyes at the familiar touch, takes comfort in it, hears Aleks breath hitch, feels his fingers curl until he’s cupping James’ jaw.

“Instead, you’re locked up with us,” Brett continues, lower, and James can’t see him through his closed lids but he can imagine it, Brett tilting his head to kiss Aleks’ neck, maybe using his other hand to stroke Aleks’ hair in a way James has yet to be brave enough to do.

“Not the worst place to be, I guess.” Aleks says after a heavy silence and James has to flutter his eyes open, has to look at him, bask in his attention the way he can never admit that he does.

Aleks is watching him, and so is Brett, and there’s heat there, in both of them, but there’s a fondness, too, that steals the air from his lungs. A softness that no one has ever looked at him with. He feels stripped by it.

He doesn’t need Aleks to pull him down. He bends without protest, presses their lips together in a swift kiss that Aleks doesn’t have a chance to take control of before James trails another kiss down his chin to his jaw, smiles at the way his beard tickles Aleks’ skin enough to make him shiver.

“You two are demons,” Aleks sighs, going lax and letting James have his way. He drags his hand from James’ cheek to his hair, tugs the tie out and buries his hands in the curls without asking permission. Brett hums good naturedly, not insulted in the least, but James bites him for the words and get a surprised huff from Aleks that turns into a laugh and forceful tug at his hair, more punishment for the bite than to pull him away.

Aleks is soothed, for the moment.

James doesn’t know how much longer they’ll be able to keep him inside, though, and there’s a part of him that is terrified of Aleks leaving, of either of them getting hurt.

He wiggles closer, tries to stain the memory of their grabbing hands on his skin.

-

Work is both boring, comforting, and nerve-wracking all at once.

He does his duties, keeps his head down, avoids Sister Mary Ann as much as he is able. He listens to the members of the church when they need to talk, nods understandingly and gives his best sagely advice when all he wants to tell them is that he is the last person anyone should try to get advice from.

He can’t hear confessions, he isn’t qualified, not yet, but he cleans that damn confessional like his life depends on it.

He finds himself scrubbing the steps of the altar more vigorously than he ever has before. He keeps seeing _blood_ when he blinks, keeps seeing a body. Imagines echoing gunshots in the cathedral that have him quaking as he scrubs the stiff-bristled brush over the steps until his fingers are red and raw. The carpet had been removed and not yet replaced, even months later. His knees ache when he stands.

The pained face of Christ watches him as he does his chores and James would drop back to his knees and kiss His feet, beg and beg, for an answer. For a way to make everything okay.

There’s no making everything okay, though. He’s run and run, and allowed himself to be reeled back into that darkness. Worse, he’s fallen - he’s fallen in love with it. Did Lucifer feel like this as he fell, or is James just that fucked up?

It isn’t until he’s finished the last of the cleaning and is sitting in his car, forehead to the wheel and breathing in and out for what feels like the millionth time, that he gets the call.

“Hey,” Brett says, casual, but James can hear the tension in his voice clear as day. Brett had an appointment today, had told them both he wouldn’t be back until late. James hadn’t been expecting any calls.

“Hi,” James sat up straight, “What’s wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?” Brett asks, going for that same forced easiness, but James just makes an impatient noise, tapping his fingers at the wheel uselessly.

“Brett.” He just says, sharper than he means to, and he hears the deep inhale from the other end of the line.

“Is Aleks with you?”

‘Is -” James blinks, looks at the phone and then around, in his back seat, like Aleks had maybe just been hiding there and napping all day or something. “No? He was still sleeping when I left. Where are you?”

“Home.” Brett says darkly, but the word still makes warmth flare in James’ chest. _Home_.

“Is he on the roof?”

“I checked.”

“...damn it.” James switches the phone to his other ear so he can hold it with his shoulder, turns his keys and puts his car in gear so he can start the drive back. He maybe starts to speed as soon as he is out of sight of the church, “Damn it. _Damn it_.”

“I’m gonna kill him.” Brett says simply, sounding serious.

“Not if I get to him first,” James says just as seriously, and ignores the fear biting at his stomach. He feels cold, the warmth that had flared put out by the chill of Aleks not being where he’s _supposed to be_.

“He might have left the GPS on his phone,” Brett says, muffled, and James can see him rubbing a rough hand over his face. “I’ll check, see if I can track him down.” “I’m coming home now,” James says, and knows he’s useless. He could probably track Aleks, too, if he dug his NOVA computer out from the floorboards. He’d have to wait until Brett was gone to do that, though. He’d keep an eye on both of them, hope that Brett reached Aleks before anything happened.

James had a bad feeling, though, and he rarely had those without reason.

“I’ll wait for you,” Brett sighs, deep and pained, “Then head out and see if I can drag his ass back.”

“Okay,” James swallows, has to stop at a red light and nearly decides to run it when he can’t see anyone coming from the other way. The only thing that stops him is the knowledge that he doesn’t have the time or patience to get pulled over, nor the money for a ticket right now.

 _Fuck_.

They hang up, both so James can drive properly and so Brett can get to work finding Aleks’ location through his GPS, and James spends the rest of the ride in silence, barely paying any attention to the road at all. The sight of his building has never been sweeter and he takes a spot closer than he normally does just so he can jump out and hurry inside.

Brett had left the door unlocked for him and he finds Ein pacing impatiently, yapping every time they make eye contact. She needs to go out and she’s getting upset enough that she might just shit on the floor to spite them for not listening to her polite notification to the call of nature but James just shuts the door with a, “Soon, Einy,” and looks around until he spots Brett at the table on his laptop.

“Anything?” He can’t help but ask, and Brett’s annoyed grunt is all that he gets in return.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he finally exhales, hard, and goes to change.

There’s nothing either of them can do, if they can’t track him. Nothing except wait for him to come back, or wait for - for a ransom note or something. God, James will actually throw up his entire organ system if they get a finger in a box or something.

Or would it be an ear? A tooth? One of his eyes? God, how intense was this crew? What if -

He manages to sit on his bed, manages to undo his cassock and drops his slacks in favor of some gym shorts and a cleaner t-shirt he somehow just knows belongs to Brett.

“I gotta…” he clears his throat, “Gotta take Ein out.”

Brett nods, eyes locked on the screen, fingers steepled in front of his face to hide his mouth. He looks dangerously mad.

James grabs Ein’s leash and leaves before either of them have to say anything else.

He tries calling Aleks as soon as he’s on the street again, but it goes straight to a voice mailbox that isn’t set up for messages and he hangs up with a curse loud enough to catch the attention of an older woman walking her sleepy Yorkie.

He takes Ein around a couple blocks, lets her little legs carry her where they may, and tries to use her to distract himself. If Brett figures out where he is, he’ll just go and grab him. He’s just snuck out to get some fresh air and, yeah, it was _stupid_ and _dangerous_ , but both of those words describe Aleksandr to a T.

He was fine.

He repeats the mantra all the way back to his apartment.

The door is unlocked but Brett is gone, a sticky note on the closed laptop telling James that Brett has gone out to look for him and that he should lock up. They had a key, and he needed to stay safe in this part of town.

James scoffs hotly, irritation and worry coming together to form a furious tangle of frustration that he can’t do anything about. He does lock the door, makes himself a sandwich in a huff of said frustration and settles into the couch to eat and wait.

Turning the TV on is too much effort so he just kicks his feet up and plays games on his phone, noticing the steadily growing darkness of the sun setting more than he ever really has before no matter how hard he tries not to.

Ein tires herself out on one of the many plush toys that Brett had brought home for her to destroy and James finishes his sandwich slowly, resisting the urge to call Brett the longer time goes by.

Eventually, he stands up resolutely and goes to his bed. He hasn’t really _slept_ in it in...a while. Not since Valentine’s day and that had been over three weeks ago.

It shouldn’t feel weird to get into his own bed, where he’s spent the last good few years of his goddamn life, but it still does when he slides under the sheets. Ein jumping up, with his help, edges the uncomfortable feeling away enough that he’s able to lay down, stare up at his ceiling and count the cracks in the paint illuminated by the world outside his windows.

He doesn’t think he’ll get any sleep, not with the low-grade ache in his belly where he’s trying to hide his fear. There’s nothing he can do, not if Brett’s already left. What’s he supposed to say, even if he does track down Aleks first?

_Oh, yeah, it was so weird! I just opened your laptop and bam, there his GPS was! How odd!_

NOVA has weighed heavily on him before, always has; his albatross.

NOVA feels choking now.

-

He must have, despite his thoughts, fallen asleep at some point, because the slamming open of his door wakes him up with a shout of fright.

“Honey, we’re home,” Aleks says, voice strangely pitched, and it takes James gaping, wide-mouth and wide-eyed, for a few seconds to recognize the heavy scent of coppery blood and that Brett is half dragging Aleks to the couch while he breathes out curses too deeply for James to make out from across the studio.

“Aleks!” he scrambles out of bed, leaving Ein to blink at them all in sleepy confusion, and goes to shut the door behind them, feeling sick at the mess of red on the handle, the key they’d left in the lock.

He uses his shirt to clean the knob off, carefully closes the door and locks it after removing the key. He drops it without a thought, turns back around to face them again.

Aleks is pale, much paler than usual, except for the smear of red on his forehead, the darkening bruise around his eye and the split in his lip. He looks like he took a couple good right hooks to the face and his cheek is swollen bright pink.

Brett isn’t focused on his face, though. He’s kicked the coffee table out of the way enough that he could kneel on the floor and yank Aleks’ leg out until he’d rested his heel on the table. James doesn’t need to see Brett cutting the skinny jeans open with his pocket knife to know something awful has happened. Those are one of Aleks’ favorite pairs, and the right leg is _soaked_ with blood.

“Hot water,” Brett tosses at him, urgent, “And the first aid kit, James.”

“It’s fine,” Aleks waves it off, but his face is drawn, lips white with how hard they’re pressed together when he isn’t speaking. “Really. Go back to sleep, angel, I’m -”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” James snarls at him, and goes to get what Brett has asked for. He must have put enough venom into it to make Aleks shut the _fuck up_ for once, or maybe he’s just in too much pain, because he doesn’t try to brush James off again.

James gets the first aid kit from the bathroom, where Brett had safely tucked it away when they’d first settled into his studio, and then fills his biggest bowl with hot water and grabs as many of his kitchen towels as he can with his free fingers.

He tries not to spill anything as he brings his haul to Brett, eyes averted from Aleks’ face.

Brett had cut the jeans from ankle all the way up to mid-thigh, and his hands are steady when he takes the water and then the towels and the kit and lies them all around his makeshift workstation.

James is glad he did, because James’ fingers are weak at the sight of Aleks’ leg. There’s a gash - ripped flesh starting just below the knee and running through to the back of his leg, still steadily trailing blood into little pools on James’ floor.

He hadn’t ever expected the deposit back, anyway.

“Jesus Christ,” he sinks to his knees, hands hovering, scared to touch, to hurt, to get in Brett’s way as Brett cracks the first aid kit open, “Oh, fucking Christ, Aleks, you need to go to the hospital.”

“Can’t,” Aleks says on an exhale, like he’s doing a breathing exercise. James looks up at him and finds that Aleks’ hands are white-knuckled and gripping the couch cushions. He’s sweating, eyes only just barely open against the pain. He looks wrecked, and it’s one of the worst sights James has ever seen. Without thinking, he reached for one of Aleks’ hands and holds it tight, doesn’t try to pull away when Aleks twists his fingers until he’s holding James’ hand so tight that bones grind together.

James doesn’t bother asking why. He doesn’t want to know. He just wants to make sure that Brett can fix it.

Brett doesn’t seem shaken at all, though James can see the tension in his shoulders, can see how unsettled he is by the set of his tightly-pressed lips and the wrinkles of his forehead.

He bathes the wound, gentle but quick, just enough to clean up what he needs to, but it still makes Aleks groan in pain and James finds himself crawling onto the couch, pulling Aleks into his arms and stroking his back, wiping the sweat on his face in a feeble attempt to distract him from the pain.

Aleks lets go of the couch completely, clings to James as if he’s an anchor, and James has to blink hard.

“This is gonna hurt.” Brett warns and then does something with one of the towels that makes Aleks _howl_. He bites into James’ shoulder, tries to muffle his yell with James’ shirt, and James just holds him tighter and breathes deep and steady.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, “It’s okay, it’ll be okay, yeah? Brett will take care of you.”

“Disinfecting.” Brett manages to say, and when he upends the bottle along the gash and Aleks goes board stiff, James can’t do much but rub his shoulders and try to get him to breathe.

“Stitching.” Brett holds up a curved needle, which he doses with the alcohol as well as he had the wound itself, and goes about pulling sterile string from a spool James hadn’t even known was _in_ that kit.

“I hate stitching,” Aleks complains, voice thick and muffled in James’ shoulder.

“Then you shouldn’t have _left_ , asshole,” Brett snaps back, and it’s the only show of emotion he’s willing to have before he starts to stitch up Aleks’ leg.

He’s careful, as fluid as he can be without any formal training, as far as James knows. James holds Aleks through it, keeps up a steady stream of assurances and doesn’t complain when Aleks muffles the softest whimper in his neck. He’s hidden his face in James’ shoulder, doesn’t look even once, but James can’t take his eyes of the gash as Brett slowly laces it up, pulls the skin together, finally ties everything off with a twisted knot that James is sure won’t hold but somehow does.

Then comes more disinfectant, another shudder of pain, before Brett finally dresses the wound up in a long series of cotton pads and medical tape.

“Now let me look at your face.” Brett gets off his knees, slowly, the creaking of bone giving away that he really is getting too old for this bullshit.

“No,” Aleks refuses, pushing deeper into James’ neck, saying something to the effect of “You’re going to _hurt me_ ,” that James could just barely make out.

“Tonight is _not_ the night to play games with me, Marchant.” Brett tugs until, with a grumble, Aleks finally peels off of James and sits up for Brett to get a look.

He’s still sweating and James could swear there were _tears_ in the corners of his eyes, making his pupils glimmer in the barely-there light Brett had been working by. James reaches out without thinking, wipes the tears from his eyes gently and realizes his hands are shaking so hard he nearly pokes Aleks in the eye instead.

“Busted face,” Brett diagnoses, “You’re fine. We’ll disinfect your lip, no telling where that fucker’s hands have been.”

“ _What_ fucker?” James demands, looking between them, “What _happened_?”

“It’s nothing,” Aleks tries to wave him away but James grabs his hand in a grip he is sure is hard enough to crack bones. The strength of it catches Aleks off guard, stops him before he continue with anymore bullshit.

“What,” James asks, and the frustration and worry he’s been feeling for hours and hours shifts. It builds in his body, morphs and twists into something disgusting and tainted and _angry_. Someone had _hurt_ Aleks. “ _Happened_ , Aleksandr?”

And maybe it’s his grip or his voice, or the glower he’s sure is on his face, but Aleks gives in.

“I just...needed to get out. Go on a drive, maybe, I dunno, get a fuckin’ drink somewhere.”

“And how’d that go?” Brett spits, tilting Aleks’ face toward him so he could wipe at the blood on his skin.

“Well,” Aleks winces but lets his husband do what he wants, holding James’ hand just as tightly as James is holding his, “I got shot and lost my favorite pair of jeans, so...not good.”

“Not good.” James echos, because trying to say _got shot_ was too much.

“I’m okay,” Aleks blinks up at the ceiling as Brett tilts his face up, lets him test his jaw to make sure it hadn’t been dislocated by whatever hook had broken up his face, “Nothing I haven’t survived before.”

“Somebody shot you.”

“Angel, hey, come on,” Aleks finally bats at Brett’s hands, trying to tug James back into his chest but James is too scared to touch him, to scared to accidentally press down on an injury he couldn’t see through his clothes, can’t get the image of Aleks splayed across the steps in the cathedral, of slipping in his blood.

“Somebody _shot_ you,” he repeats, near hysterical, but his voice is strangled more by the fury welling up higher and higher than anything else.

“To be fair,” Aleks swallows, giving up to give him a careful look instead, “I shoot people all the time. Payback’s a bitch.”

“Was it -” James shakes his head, has to clear his throat, “Was it that crew? Truman’s crew?”

“N-”

“Yes,” Brett interrupts and presses a towel soaked in alcohol against Aleks’ lip before he can continue. “They cornered him at the bar.”

“I coulda taken ‘em,” Aleks said around the towel so Brett pressed down harder until he couldn’t talk anymore.

James stands up, picks up the water bowl and the bloody towels. He’ll have to throw them away, burn them, something. Let Brett handle disposal, maybe. A couple hours’ drive into the desert and a hole in the sand would keep them gone forever, but James didn’t have much time for that.

“Angelcakes, it’s not -”

“Don’t say it isn’t a big deal.” James says crisply and pours the water out. He tosses the towels into the trash, never wants to see them again, and grabs a bag of frozen veggies from the freezer. They bag is older than Ein by this point, but it’ll make a fine ice pack.

Brett is packing up the kit when he turns back around, still stiff with anger. James can see it as clearly as he feels his own anger.

He sits back down, presses the bag to Aleks’ face while Brett cleans up the last of the mess. The blood hasn’t stained the floor, at least, but they’ll have to air the studio out all night to get rid of the smell.

Aleks takes the bag and holds it up himself, looking as contrite as James has ever seen him.

Aleks isn’t one for second guessing. Brett hadn’t been wrong, when he’d said that Aleks was one of the smart ones. He was always a step ahead, until he wasn’t anymore.

He’d stumbled here, and it was kind of James’ fault and kind of his fault, but mostly it wasn’t...it _couldn’t_ happen again.

James wouldn’t let it happen again. He hadn’t given up his soul to keep Aleks out of prison to only keep him prisoner in James’ own fucking home.

“What crew is he a part of?” he asks stiffly, because that’s the first step.

“You don’t have to worry about it, angel,” Aleks promises, sounding tired. The adrenaline has finally run out, maybe, because he suddenly looks exhausted.

“Give me a _goddanm_ name, Aleks.” James demands, standing up again. He’s not the most imposing, not usually, but the look on his face must be enough to shake Aleks because he ducks a little.

“They call themselves the Clippers." Brett answers when Aleks just presses his lips together.

The Clippers. James looks over Aleks' bruised up face, the bloody jeans still in tatters around his thigh, looks over Brett's white-knuckled grip on the first aid kit.

It's an irresistible impulse, in the end. The desire to keep them safe, the knowledge that _he can do that_. He can protect them.

He feels their eyes on him as he shoves his dresser out of the way, as he drops to his knees to pull his NOVA laptop out of his floor.

"James, what the fuck." Aleks says from the couch but James doesn't acknowledge it. He can't, he doesn't want to lose his nerve and if they ask, he won't be able to not answer.

He hasn't touched this laptop since the night he met them.

He plugs the charger in, sits with the laptop in his lap and his back against the wall, and gets to work.

Brett and Aleks give up trying to talk to him eventually, when they finally accept that he isn't going to answer them. He hears them moving around, at first; mumbled words, Brett on the phone. Aleks pulls out the bed and Brett takes Ein out.

James doesn't take his eyes off the screen.

-

The Clippers are good. James can see why Aleks and Brett would have been doing business with them. They keep their heads down and their hands mostly clean.

It's white collar crime: taxes, stocks, the occasional political blackmail.

He can't find much at first. He's out of practice and Truman's people are good at what they do. He has to comb through bank transactions he only managed to get through a hole in the city bank system, give in and visit his old haunts to read up on changes in systems and new tricks of the trade he had hoped he would never have to look at again.

It isn't be easy but he's just as determined to find them as they are to hide.

He takes the laptop with him when he goes to work the next morning to protect it from his live-in _idiots_ and he actually takes his lunch hour to sit in his car and keep searching.

Aleks rests. Brett is quiet when James gets home. James doesn't sleep in anything but short snatches of time, two hours here and there. He sets up in his bed and ignores them both. Lets them take care of Ein because he can't stop, doesn't want to stop.

He takes a break around three in the morning, when his eyes itch and ache and his stomach finally pulls him from the screen.

They're sleeping like - like what used to be normal, spooned up together under a sheet. He knows they're both mostly nude and it hits him, the vulnerability they show in his dark little studio.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake them, and just looks.

Brett is unshaven, face tight even in sleep. Aleks has hidden his face in Brett's back, tattoos slung over Brett's waist lightly. They both breath evenly, just out of rhythm with each other.

James feels fondness welling up. Feels something deeper, harder, angrier trying to crawl out of his throat. Truman's crew nearly took this from him.

He strikes Aleks' arm, just once, and then stands back up. He grabs some water, a piece of cold pizza from the box on the table, and goes back to his laptop. Ein doesn't stir from where she's sleeping in the tangle of Aleks and Brett's legs.

-

He finds what he needs, leaves a trail of _NOVA_ in his wake that he knows will breadcrumb his doom right to his doorstep.

He’s turned his back on God, though, and his back on his safety, and on his morals and on his life Before.

Because when Brett smiles at him, his heart beats faster than any motions of faith have brought and when Aleks says his name, he thinks about how he’d rather hear that every second of every day for the rest of his life, short as it may be, than life forever and never hear it again.

He closes the laptop around seven in the morning, strips off his clothes, crawls into the pull out with them and lets Aleks sleepily drag him close, lets Brett tangle their legs together.

Holds them both as tight as he can, closes his stinging, dry eyes.

Thinks about how much he loves them.

Hopes he loved them enough to save them from this, from _this_ , if nothing else.

-

 

“We…..are...clear??” aleks says, and its so honestly confused when he hangs up that james has to look up.

“What do you mean” brett asks

“I MEAN that the pigs busted the whole damn crew. We’re in the clear.”

“HOW?” They aren’t stupid. They know he did it. Somehow. Somehow James saved them, and they know it, but he won’t tell them how. In this, he holds frm, doesn’t want to see their faes when he says it. Doesn’t want to lose what time he has left with them. He’s hunted now, surely. It won’t be long.

He thinks they might leave, since they’re free now.

They dont leave.

James cant complain.

-

Even secrets wont keep the three of them from their church heist tho. Brett and aleks drop in on james unexpectedly now that they’re ‘clear’ and thus……….the Confessional Scene (edited)

-

James lays between them while they all sleep that night, still on the pull out because his bed isn’t nearly big enough for the three of them, and thinks. He remembers the nights and the confessional, and the mornings and the dinners. Remembers sitting on the roof with aleks and shopping with brett, and holding aleks’ hand with his lips pressed to his knuckles while aleks let brett pull a bullet out of him and remembers brett holding him while he lost his shit about almost getting shot, and he doesnt know how he ever thought he’d be able to give it up. New vows, new man, no NOVA.

Its all bullshit. He’s never loved with anything but all of him.

-

“Im damned” he says when aleks catches him staring at the pages of the holy book.

“We’re all damned” aleks shrugs

“Yeah.” james says, and swallows, “but not like me.”

Aleks doesnt say anything back. Just squeezes james’ shoulder and james puts his face in his hands and tries not to cry. He’s pulled in so many directions - toward hundarhd and what he’s promised the church, toward his life as NOVA.

He knows that, after reviving NOVA, he wont be able to disappear again. He’d moved across the country, left all of his equipment behind in an old house under someone else’s name. This time, he’d barely done the bare minimum to protect himself in his rush to protect them.

He was damned.

Aleks sits next to him, holds him.

-

Holds him again when he cries that night, shaking, holding the two of them.

Hes scared.

He’s scared to die. He’s scared to lose them, scared of what might happen if they’re caught with him when whoever tracks him down does it.

He’s scared about what will happen to his soul. Can only pray for forgiveness because he can’t regret any of it but he’s so. So. fucking. scared.

-

Brett and aleks move back to their place the next day, a week before The Day.

“Its in case anyone recognizes us” brett says, like they hadn’t fucked in the confessional just a bit ago. “we dont want to get you involved.” Hes lying, and james can tell, but he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong and he’s too afraid to ask.

Aleks doesn’t say anything, and that’s more telling than if he’d brushed it all off.

James watches them go, and aches.

Somehow his apartment seems so large with just he and ein. He misses them.

Aleks answers his call but his words are sharp and he tells him that contact should be kept to nothing until the day, just in case. He doesnt bother trying to call brett, he knows he won’t get an answer.

-

He goes to a different church on the other side of the city, far far away from his church, two days before The Day. He can’t take this anymore.

He wants to find them, to SEE them, even though he knows its an awful idea. They have the right one, keeping their distance, but for all the wrong reasons.

Still. He remembers what aleks and brett had said. He finds the church.

There’s a man at the altar, a priest.

James recognizes him. Recognizes his face, older and bushier and with more lines, but he knows that face and knows its the face of the devil he’s been running from for years.

“Father, i need to confess,” he says to the priest at the altar. The church is small, it’s barely anything, in a bad part of town, and it’s exactly the kind of church james had grown up in. not like the one he works in now. Its comforting, somehow, and the closest he’s felt to God since he was a boy. Aleks and brett had mentioned it a few times, passing jokes back and forth about the little catholic church so different from james’. It’s the closest he’s felt to them since they left, too.

“Come on then,” the priest says, tattoos all the way down to his finger nails and a handlebar mustache on his face, tired eyes and a full beard. There’s no recognition in his lazy eyes but James isn’t fooled.

They go to the confessional, much less ornate than the one he and aleks had taken brett apart in, and he sits on the other side and covers his face with his hands and cries.

“I’m going to die soon.” he says.

“I’m sorry.” the priest says, “What of?”

“Mistakes.” james says, and then just. Confesses everything. From the moment he’d downloaded his first coding program to the moment he’d sat down. It takes so long, he’s there FOREVER, but the priest doesn’t say a word through it all. At the end, james lists his sins, all of them, and ends with a sobbed “and the worst part is, i don’t regret any of it. Just that i wont have them. Just that i couldn’t protect them more.”

“Well.” the priest says, “That’s...ive gotta say, kid, that’s the most unexpected shit i’ve ever heard in this box.”

“Sorry.” james says.

“There’s nothing i can tell you that will...help, here. No number of hail marys can save you if you dont repent.” James agrees, because what else is there to do. He cant not go through with it, though. Not showing up to his vows the same time that aleks and brett steal the whole fundraiser fund?? Thats a surefire way of getting caught. And all it would take would be a cursory chat with any of his neighbors for them to bring up that he’d been living with two men recently and then suddenly wasn’t anymore. He was STUCK. He was fucked.

“Thank you father.” he says, and leaves before the priest can forgive him.

He doesn’t deserve it and the kind of priest he’d just spoken to wasn’t the forgiving kind, anyway.

-

The night before his vows, he gets a call from brett. He doesn’t answer, because he’s at easter vigil, where he is supposed to cause a distraction if someone gets suspicious. There are no noises though.

“It’s off.” brett says, when he listens to the voicemail, “we’re not interested in the plan anymore. Don’t contact us again. Just. new vows, new man.”

He calls. He calls, panic welling up in his throat, and neither of them answer his calls. When he goes to their apartment, straight from the church, no one answers the door no matter how long he bangs.

He can’t lose them.he should let them go, be HAPPY that they cut and run, but it hurts. It hurts and it makes the fear so much worse. Makes it SO MUCH WORSE that that will be the last time he hears from them. Will be the last thing they say to him before he’s taken, or killed, or worse.

He can’t find them.

-

He…..goes to the service, because what else is he supposed to do. He sits and listens to the deacon and remembers everything that happened in that confessional, and remembers frank’s blood and body on the altar steps, remembers laying on them while he was being threatened by the men he had no idea would become so important to him.

He doesn’t know how much longer he has, when NOVA will get a bullet in his head. He wants to see them again.

The deacon asks james to come to the front to take his vows, commends him for his bravery with the last few months.

James stands, freezes. He cant do this.

“James?” the deacon says and sister mary ann is watching him with the smug face of someone who knew he didnt have the guts to finish this out to the end. But she’s right. He cant take these vows. He doesnt want to be a new man. If he’s going to die, he’s not gonna do it breaking THESE vows. These arent who he is, arent who he wants to die as.

“I...i can’t.” he says, and leaves.

He leaves the church, gets down the street before he starts to freak the fuck out. Its while he’s leaned over on his knees, trying to breath, that NOVA comes back to bite him in the ass.

-

He wakes up in a room. It looks like a stereotypical gangster film room, all gray cinder block walls and his arms tied behind his back and against a chair.

Figures that this is how he goes.

A man comes into the room, another stereotype, and he roughs james up but james wont talk. Hes DISGUSTED with himself that a guy like THIS is who tracked NOVA down, but there’s nothing to be done. Its what he deserves, in the end.

He wishes he’d told hundarhd about NOVA in the end. brett probably would have laughed at him, but aleks would have been impressed, maybe, before they turned him over to the kingpin.

He gets LIGHTLY tortured for information, but he really doesnt have any and he gave up the money to his mom years ago so there’s nothing he can GIVE. he’s going to die in some hole with some rats and thats just how police will find his body one day. Or maybe they never will and he’ll just be another missing person, another statistic, nothing to even bury.

And then aleks and brett bust in and james is so happy to see them that he takes a pipe to the face for Brett as soon as he’s free to move.

Just can’t seem to stop throwing himself in front of the gun for them.

-

He wakes up in his apartment, head wrapped and pain medded UP, thank christ.

Brett is awake but aleks is sleeping on the other side of the bed, arms and head resting against the edge right next to james’ hand.

Brett explains, so quiet that james has trouble hearing, that they left because they thought that was what james would be happiest with. If he could take his vows and forget about them.

“But that was going to be how you got the kingpin to notice you. It was your shot to get into the big leagues.” james says, because it HAD been.

“There’ll be other shots.” brett says, with a shrug. “But then we got a warning from the head hanchos that you were in trouble.”

It turns out that james had been undone the moment he’d revived NOVA by the kingpin’s best guy, that he’d been being followed since that day.

That he was wanted, that the kingpin was INTERESTED in him. That his people had followed their own ladder down until it found brett and aleks and they’d come for him.

Aleks, who had not been as asleep as previously thought, sits up and DRAGS james for hiding NOVA, and then, just as james predicted, is impressed.

Brett laughs at him.

“If youre interested,” brett says, “the kingpin is giving up one of those shots i mentioned. Says he was impressed, even if we didn’t go through with it.”

“If im interested?”

“Well. we could use someone like NOVA in a crew of our own. And we could use someone like, well. You. with us. If you wanted.”

And its awkward, but james understands, and its the closest he’s felt to happy since he was a kid, staring up at the beautiful glass of the church windows and wondering if he’d ever feel loved like that.

He isn’t sure if he’s interested in robbing any churches or killing grannies in debt. But they know that, know HIM. james is down for some robin hooding, though. Down for some cyber antifa shit or playing the morally gray reckoning to the darker gray of the city.

He kind of misses it. Misses the power, the fight of it. He’s so sick of hiding.

And aleks smirks that shark smile, but it just makes james grin back, and brett looks at him all serious and quiet like he had that first night that he’d handed james the mug of water and told him to drink. They kiss him, one after the other, and he’s still a little hazy and dizzy from the head wound but he isn’t so dizzy that he doesn’t know how much he loves them. Doesn’t recognize that they’re looking at him like he looked at that stained glass window. That the vows he’d made to them, silent as they were, mean more to him than anything he’s ever spoken to the church.

He’s damned, he knows that. But he’s damned with _them_ , and it’s more than he’s ever thought he was going to be allowed to have.

Ein sleeps at his feet, a half chewed milk bone between her teeth.


	9. I'd get on my knees (I'd get on my knees)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the original pwp that started it all (i love you tay and thank u cas for letting me play in this beautiful sandbox of yours)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ORIGINAL PWP that i wrote christmas of......idk 2018 maybe? 17? idk it was too long ago damn it
> 
> its not exactly current canon-compliant bc the Fic Has Grown Since Then but boi is it still u kno. a thing.
> 
> <3 thanks to everyone for sticking around, to all of my friends who went thru this with me and betaed and listened to me bitch and whine, to mari for catholic-picking for me and to all of the other ppl who made this fic possible. i love you!!!
> 
>  
> 
> merry super late christmas tay ;)

“I can’t hear your confessions, Brett,” James tries to explain, again, but they don’t _listen_ , they never listen, so here he is.

“You’re gonna be a priest, aren’t you?” Aleks teases, and James keeps his eyes on the wood in front of him, doesn’t let his gaze stray to the grille between them, “Consider it practice.”

“I can’t fuckin’ - absolve you or forgive you, I don’t know what you want to get out of this.”

“Oh, trust me,” Brett laughs, dark and breathy, and James goes still, has to close his eyes. He hears a quiet thunk through the thin wood. “There’s no absolving our sins. But let’s try. Roleplay with us, sweetheart. Pretend you’re that new man, huh?”

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” James mutters, but he can hear shuffling, the sound of a zipper being pulled, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “Fine. Fine, you _fuckers_ , fine.”

Brett hums a pleased little noise, sighs in that way that James has become intimately familiar with as the sound he makes when Aleks is being nice.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Brett says, voice thick, and James takes a second to get a grip, remember what he’s supposed to be doing. He opens his eyes, but only to look out of the confessional, make sure that the church is still empty. Just him, because he’s supposed to be cleaning the damn box and Father Frank isn’t around to beat his hands if he doesn’t do it right. Sister Mary Ann’s maybe somewhere close by, but she doesn’t come into this part of the church anymore.

“How long since your last confession?” He says dutifully, shifted uncomfortably when he hears Aleks make an amused noise, hears Brett knock his head back against the confessional wall.

“Um,” Brett stops, “Jesus, uh, years. Fuck, twenty years? Something like that.”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain in a damn confessional, Brett.” James snaps, feels his face go hot when Brett just groans softly in response.

“Love when you get all forceful,” Brett says, and it’s teasing but James can hear the underlying smugness, “I’ll tag that on to my list of sins,”

James sighs explosively, but it’s a front, and they all know it. His pants are getting uncomfortably tight, the little box of space unbearably hot. He feels sweat building under his collar even in the cool church air, can’t get the image of what’s happening next to him out of his head. He knows that Aleks is being nice, he’s always nicer to Brett than he is to James, and he knows that Brett is probably enjoying Aleks on his knees, cramped up in the little box together.

He wants to be with them.

“I haven’t been very moral, Father,” Brett says quietly and his voice goes a little weird for a second, probably Aleks’ efforts, “Think you can save me?”

“God saves any man, if he’s willing.” James answers, throat dry, and hopes he isn’t wrong. The priesthood isn’t right for him, he knows that by now, even if he’s sticking with it ‘til the end, but he hasn’t lost his faith, not completely. He knows he’s going to hell, he knows they’ve darkened his soul more than it had already been. He hopes God will forgive him, at the end of his life, when he’s faced with this moment and filled with anything but regret.

Brett’s making noises that sound like consecration, like Aleks is helping him find the most blissful absolution. Aleks has a shitty gag reflex, but he’s got a gifted tongue and knows how to use it, and James is jealous of them both. He wants to have Aleks’ mouth on him, wants to have his mouth on Brett, wants to be with them. Not separated by a damn grille.

“Your sins, Brett,” James says, a little impatiently, when he hears Aleks make a soft, moaning sound. He is not going to touch himself in a _fucking confessional_. That’s their plan, and he knows it - they want to fucking ruin him, get their dirty fingers all over this whole damn church just to drive it home that they’ve corrupted him. But maybe if he plays along, beats them at their own game, they’ll give up on it this time. It’s a long shot, but he’s not got much of a choice in the matter so it’s his best chance.

“Where to start,” Brett laughs, though it’s still soft. He hasn’t raised his voice since he and Aleks came in and, somehow, that’s fucking with James’ head. That Brett’s scared to raise his voice. That Aleks might make him.

“Twenty years is a long time,” James shifts again, clasps his hands in his lap, “That’s...that’s apostasy, right there. A mortal sin.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of those, don’t I?” Brett mutters, sounds just a little too proud about that. “Actually, Father...you know me pretty well. We’re...close, and you’d know better. Tell me what I’m guilty of, sweetheart.”

“Sexually harassing a man of the fucking cloth for one,” Aleks says, and his voice is low - as in, it’s low to the ground, and James actually has to hold back a gasp. He’s seriously on his knees in the goddamn confessional, James was _right_. It’s one thing to make assumptions based off Brett’s voice - it’s another to _know_.

“That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to confess to me, not have me confess for you.” James rolls his eyes, presses his hands against his thighs, palms flat.

“It’s been twenty years, I can’t remember, just - just list ‘em, I’ll let you know if you’ve hit the nail on the -” Brett starts and then presses his hand against the grille, fingers slipping through the holes so he can grip it and brace himself, “God damn it, _Aleks_ ,”

“Blasphemy,” James says softly, and Brett laughs, high and delighted that James is playing along. Jesus help him.

“Twenty years since your last confession...that means you’ve probably been skipping Mass, which is a no-no.”

“Haven’t been since I was a kid,” Brett agrees, “Whoops.”

“Sacrilege,” James says, a little viciously, “Heresy,”

“Boring,” Aleks cuts in, a little hoarse, “Get to the good stuff, baby,”

“The _good stuff_ ,” James scorns, “These’ll send you to Hell, fuckface. You have to do penance for all of those. There is no _good stuff_.”

“Masturbation,” Brett points out, “Definitely guilty of that. That’s a mortal sin. Abuse of the flesh or something. Sexy, sexy sinning.”

“Terrorism.” James snaps back, “Lying, hatred, wrath, envy,”

“Gay shit,” Aleks adds, like it’s a _joke_ , and it infuriates and turns James on all at once.

“Scandal,” James lifts his hands, presses his palms to his eyes, feels them burning, “Encouragement of sin,”

“Me?” Brett squeezes the wood of the grille, makes a cut off whining noise that has the hair on the back of James’ neck lifting, “Encourage sin? Always.”

“Perjury, endangerment of human life -” He leans his head back against the confessional wall, thinks of the drug deal gone wrong, when Brett had killed that man to protect James. “..murder,”

“Finally,” Aleks sighs, “The _good_ stuff.”

“He sounds angry,” Brett says, but he doesn’t sound any less turned on than before, any less like he’s enjoying every second of this game, “Come on, sweetheart, finish it off. Where’s the big one, huh?”

“Fornication,”

Brett makes another one of those noises, the ones that tell James exactly what Aleks is doing with his tongue because James has been there when Aleks does it and he recognizes the way Brett’s hands are twisting a little frantically in the grille, like he’s trying to find purchase against the pleasure.

“You…” James stops, licks his lips, presses his palms harder into his eyes, spreads his legs a little to relieve the pressure, “You gotta...you gotta list each time. It’s not enough to say you did it. If you really wanted forgiveness, you’d remember each instance.”

“Shit,” Brett says, and then there’s a pause except for the creak of wood, the shifting of clothes, and it’s like James can see it even though he’s blinded by his own palms. Brett’s head tilted back against the wall, slack-jawed, thighs cradling Aleks and his shark smile and laughing eyes and that look on his face that said he knew exactly what he was doing to Brett.

“ _No_ ,” Brett suddenly curses, pained, and James doesn’t have to wait for him to snap Aleks’ name to know that Aleks has decided he’s done being nice. “Aleks, you _fucking_ gremlin, you _said -_ ”

“James didn’t say you could come, babe,” Aleks says gently, and James hates that he actually does sound apologetic, like he really is sorry that James didn’t say Brett could come even though James hadn’t even known that he’d been in _charge_ of that decision. “Maybe if you ask him to forgive you again, he will.”

“James,” Brett says tightly, desperate, a little bit whiny, “Sweetheart, tell him,”

James slowly drops his hands, feels his heart beating so fast that it kind of hurts.

“You have to list your sins, Brett. Otherwise I can’t forgive you.”

“Evil,” Brett groans, makes a hurt noise that lets James know that Aleks is still being mean, “Evil, you didn’t even want to play this game -”

“I’m roleplaying, _sweetheart_ ,” James fists the material of his cassock, “Just like you told me to. List your sins, Brett, or I can’t forgive you.”

“I don’t -” Brett inhales hard, “I don’t - too many, fuck, too many, I can’t remember them all,”

“Give me one,” James demands, feels powerful, in charge, like he’s not just going along with it, “Your worst sin, Brett. Tell me.”

“Define worst,” Brett snarks, and then makes a noise high in the back of his throat. James hears the way he arches through the creaking of the wood and he can’t resist looking - peeks through the grille to see a flash of blond in Brett’s lap, one hand threaded tight in Aleks’ hair, before he makes himself look away again.

“The one you liked doing the most,” James decides, says around a dry tongue, “The one that convinced you that you needed to confess.”

“James,” Brett bangs the grille a little, can’t unlock his fingers enough to do more than push at it, “James, _fuck_ -”

“I can’t forgive you until you ask for it. Now confess.”

Brett makes an angry noise, high and thin, and finally gives in. When he starts to talk, it’s desperate but smug, more of a purr than a tone, and it sends sharp heat up and down James’ spine.

“My worst sin...god, it was that night. I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit, James, but that night - when we put you on your knees and you went down on me while I held your hair, and then you let Aleks fuck you and prayed for fucking forgiveness after, you remember that? That the encouragement shit you mentioned? Did we _fornicate_ with you? Make you do all that mortal sinning you’re so scared of? Fuckin’ so good you thought God’d be jealous?”

“ _Brett_!” James practically shrieks, so shocked that he actually has to stare at the wall in front of him with wide, terrified eyes. Jesus Christ. Jesus _Christ_.

“I hope He is,” Brett gasps, voice shaking, “I hope He _hates_ us for stealing you, I hope He knows what a goddamn loss it was the second we got your eyes to linger,”

“Stop,” James manages to choke out, face going so hot that he’s suddenly scared that he’s being eaten by hellfire even now, “Brett, Jesus - holy _shit_ \- you can’t just -”

“Who’s gonna stop me?” Brett demands, and James can hear the pain of being held back for so long, can see the way he’s trembling from his shaking fingers through the grille, “Come on, Father, how am I gonna atone for stealing you? What’s gonna save my dirty soul after leading you from the good path?”

“Penance,” James decides, makes himself relax, drops his voice, lets himself be mean, too, “Punishment. You think you’re so big and bad?”

“James,” Brett hisses in response, maybe realizes his mistakes too late, “Aleks, d-damn it, _fuck_ , Aleks, please -”

“One Hail Mary,” James cuts him off, “Or you aren’t getting any forgiveness from me.”

“I don’t -” Brett open palms the grille again, and James can hear the way he tries to keep himself together, “I don’t _remember it_ -”

“Then you don’t get to come.” Aleks says, severe, and James knows as well as Brett that he means it.

“No, fuck, okay, please,” Brett groans, urgent, “Please, I - Hail Mary, full of Grace -”

“He’s gonna try,” Aleks laughs, gleeful and cruel, “James, come’ere, he’s gonna try,”

“You fucking _freak_ -” Brett says tightly, “Don’t - stay over there, James, we aren’t -”

“That’s not the prayer, Brett,” Aleks interrupts, and does something that has Brett actually sobbing and that’s it, that’s as much as James can take. He stands up, slams the door open so he can stride out and around to the other side. He yanks the door open, pushes the curtain aside, and takes in the sight before him. Aleks on his knees, Brett with his pants around his thighs, tee rucked up to his armpits, face red and scrunched up in pain. Aleks’ been using both hands and he’s got one holding so tight to the base of Brett’s dick that it’s an angry purple, the other flat against the head, rubbing slow against that bundle of nerves just under the glands.

“Come on, Brett,” Aleks squeezes Brett’s base and Brett jerks his whole body, still holding tight to the grille - one of his feet braces against the floor, the other spread as far as his pants will let him, his free hand above his head like he can brace himself against the wood enough to escape Aleks’ punishing stimulation. James would feel bad, but Brett had pissed him off and he couldn’t remember something as simple as the fucking Hail Mary.

“The Lord is - blessed?” Brett tries, and Aleks looks at James for confirmation. When James shakes his head, Aleks makes a disappointed sound and cups his hand over the head of Brett’s dick. James has a few seconds to take in the way Brett inhales like he’s been cut before Aleks is rubbing and twisting his palm and Brett is barely stopping himself from kicking Aleks away, high-pitched _ah-ah-ah_ s escaping before he can swallow them back in deep, hard pants.

It only lasts for a few seconds, maybe fifteen, but it’s like a live wire’s been cut when Aleks stops and Brett goes limp, chest heaving, arms and legs shaking. If James looks close, he’s pretty sure he can see tears forming.

“Start again,” James checks over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, and then leans against the doorway and lets the curtain fall behind him. The little box is too small for all three of them - it’s too small for the two of them - so the door is out of the question, but the curtain easily hides them. “Show me how badly you want to be forgiven.”

Brett swears, blinks hard a few times and gazes at James with hazy eyes, a look of desperation on his face that implies that maybe this isn’t the first time Brett’s been denied today. The tears don’t fall, but they collect on his lashes, make his eyes shiny, and the drastic downturn of his mouth that forms an upset frown is enough to break James’ intent. He’s so fucking weak.

“Hail Mary,” Brett takes a second to collect himself, looks so relieved when James nods encouragingly that he continues with a little more confidence, “Full of Grace, the..the Lord?”

“The Lord is with thee,” James says quietly, reaches out so he can slide his fingers through Aleks’ hair. Aleks pushes into it like a cat, looks at him through his eyelashes. It’s the most dangerous look James has ever received, knows he’s playing with fire by touching Aleks’ hair in a way that, until now, only Brett has got away with. But Aleks tilts into the touch, makes a pleased noise when James scratches at his scalp. “Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

“H-Hail Mary, full of Grace,” Brett sniffs, reaches down to rub at his eyes, wipe the tears that had been brimming, “the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou am _oung_ \- _ah_!”

Aleks laughs, pumps Brett again, and James watches the way Brett writhes, takes in how good he looks against the dark wood, tanned skin and muscles and sweat and that sweet pain on his face.

“Keep goin’, Brett,” James says, like he doesn’t know exactly how horrible it is to be cut off like that. Aleks was a goddamn tease at the best of times, and he wasn’t even often that cruel to James.

“Blessed...Blessed are thou among women..and blessed is the...fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

“Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

“It’s so much,” Aleks sighs, like he’s bored, “I bet you won’t be able to finish if I keep polishing you, huh?”

“Don’t -” Brett starts, but it’s too late, and Aleks curls his hand around Brett’s head before Brett has time to try to kick away, and then it’s over. Brett curls inward, nearly over Aleks, and then explodes back against the confessional with a loud cry that has James ducking his head out of the curtain to see if Sister Mary Ann had come to check out what the noise was.

“Too loud, babe,” Aleks says casually, “Finish the fuckin’ hymn or whatever it is.”

“It’s a prayer,” James corrects, returning his attentions to Brett, “Come on, Brett. Just one more line. You can do it.”

“Holy….Holy-holy-holy M _ary_ -” Brett tries to twist away, but Aleks has a tight grip on his dick and James is in the doorway, there’s no place for him to go, and the tears spring back up so suddenly that James is almost worried. Aleks doesn’t stop, though, and Brett doesn’t ask for him to.

“M-mother of God, pray...pray for...for…”

“For us sinners now…” James fills in and Brett gives him such a look of thankful relief that James wants to kiss him.

“For us sinners now and...and at the hour -” James watches Aleks lean forward, lick a long, firm line up Brett’s shaft, and Brett nearly convulses, one booted foot banging so hard into the wood paneling that James thinks he hears something splinter.

“You’re so close, babe,” Aleks finally stops rubbing and Brett goes loose again, shivering in the chair of the confessional so hard that James can hear the feet clattering against the floor.

“At the hour of our death,” Brett finishes, “Amen, _amen_ , I did it - I did it, right? Right, James? I can come now?”

“No,” James says before Aleks can, smiles slow and fond, “No, you have to apologize now. Show some damn contriteness, acting like this in a fucking _confessional_ ,”

“I’m sorry,” Brett says, almost before he’s even finished, “I’m _sorry_ , fuck, James, I’m so sorry, please, _please_ , it hurts, I’m sorry -”

 _Apologize to God, not me_ , James starts to say, and then realizes he doesn’t want to. He’d rather Brett beg _him_.

“It’s sweet, isn’t it?” Aleks nudges his wrist, James’ fingers still gently tangled in his hair, stroking along his scalp without conscious thought, “The way he gets all bratty like this if you just play the long con. You like it.”

“Maybe,” James says after a second of silence, of contemplation. There’s no point in lying to Aleks, he can see right through James. Instead, he looks at Brett, watches the way his bared chest heaves, the way he looks at them both like they’re benediction, like he hates and adores them in equal measure.

“Is he forgiven, Father?”

“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.” James says instead of answering, quiet because he doesn’t want to miss the wheezing moans or the soft, barely there whines, the softest creaks of the wood as Brett breathes so heavily against it. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father,” James reaches out, presses the tip of his thumb to Brett’s sweaty forehead, almost freezes at the way Brett’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into the touch like he’s starving for it. Instead, though, he drags his finger down a little to the center of Brett’s chest, “And of the son,” he moves back up, crosses Brett’s shoulders to complete the movement, “And of the Holy Spirit.”

“Am I forgiven, Father?” Brett manages, smiling slow and too smug for being laid out like a snack bar in the _fucking confessional_.

“As close as you’re gonna get,.” James nods, and Brett gets so far as to open his mouth before Aleks is jacking him so hard and fast that James would think it painful if not for the look of _euphoria_ that washes over Brett’s face. It sends a heat so hot through James that he actually almost stumbled.

James gives in to the desire that’s been building, leans forward and presses the smallest of kisses to Brett’s slack mouth, and then Brett grabs his head, grips his hair and presses their foreheads together as he pants and sobs into the kiss. James gets to kiss Brett through one of the most visually intense orgasms he’s ever seen. It makes Brett’s body jerk so hard that the whole damn box near moves, forces those little sounds that James likes far too much from Brett’s throat, forces the tears from Brett’s eyes. He makes those sweet noises against James’ lips, shakes and stifles pained whines into their kiss and he’s so goddamn beautiful that James can’t help but run a hand across his chest, pinch one of his nipples just to make him jerk and twist. He can’t get far, can’t get away, with Aleks pinning his hips and working him until he’s come and then working him after that, fist tight and uncaring of Brett’s pleas.

It’s long, it’s a long fucking orgasm, that mostly involves Brett clinging to James and begging Aleks while Aleks completely ignores him and does what he wants until Brett is a shaking, sobbing mess, and there’s no better box to admit how much James is into it as this particular box, even if it is empty of an actual priest.

When Aleks finally stops, finally lets Brett’s rolling hips still, when James can press a flat palm to Brett’s stomach and there are minor jumps but no curling muscle, James finally pulls away from Brett’s face to take him in.

“...Feel saved?”

“Fuck you.”

Somehow, even though it had all been a joke, James felt…lighter.


End file.
